CHAPTER 43: The Fugitive Part 14

CHAPTER 43: The Fugitive Part 14

Dawn in Berlin was a strip of lavender and pale orange tearing through the perpetual gray of the sky. At 5:00 a.m. sharp, before the first siren disturbed the silence, Darem's eyelids opened. There was no sleepy blinking, no fumbling for a snooze button. His consciousness shifted from unconsciousness to full alertness in the space of a heartbeat, as if a switch had been thrown inside him.

His room wasn't a cell, but it wasn't a home either. It was a Spartan cubicle in the Antigen barracks, devoid of posters, photographs, or any hint of personality. A single bed with gray, tightly tucked sheets, a metal locker for his uniform and training clothes, and a table with a book: a black Bible, worn at the edges, with corners folded on specific passages. The walls were clean, without a speck of dust.

He dressed in simple black training clothes, no logos. His movements were economical, precise, without a wasted ounce of energy. At exactly 5:15 a.m., he left his room and headed to the Antigen cafeteria.

The mess hall was empty at this hour, illuminated by cold fluorescents that reflected off the stainless steel of the tables and counters. The air smelled of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. The only person present was a drowsy cook, who nodded at Darem as part of a daily ritual. Without a word, he served him a bowl of thick, unsweetened oatmeal, an apple, and a glass of water. The perfect soldier's meal.

Darem sat alone at a table far from the entrance. He ate with the same efficiency with which he did everything: steady, measured spoonfuls, chewing each bite the exact number of times necessary. He didn't look at his datapad, he didn't daydream. He just ate, fuel for the machine. In ten minutes, he was done. He left the bowl and plate immaculate, as if no one had used them, and headed to the gym.

The Antigen gym at 5:30 a.m. was a temple of solitude and effort. The smell of sweat, metal, and rubber was intense. Weight machines, punching bags, jump ropes, all waiting in the half-light. Darem ignored it all.

He went to a cleared corner, overlooking a large window that was beginning to show the city waking up. He stood, feet shoulder-width apart. He lowered his center of gravity slightly, bending his knees just a bit. His arms rose softly, as if embracing an invisible tree, palms facing his body. His back straightened, his chin tucked in slightly. His eyes focused on a point on the horizon, but without truly seeing.

It was the stance of Zhan Zhuang. The stance of embracing the tree.

And there he remained. Motionless.

Minutes turned into an hour. Then two. Sweat began to soak his clothes, forming a dark halo on his back and chest. An almost imperceptible tremor began in his leg muscles, a silent protest at the static demand. His breathing was the only thing moving, deep and rhythmic, inhaling through the nose, exhaling through the mouth, a constant cycle fueling the internal burn.

It wasn't meditation. It was an iron training. He was forging the patience of a predator, the unshakable endurance to wait for the exact moment to strike. He cultivated the root, the grounding connection that made him unbeatable in combat. Every minute of stillness was a reminder that true power resides not in constant movement, but in absolute control, in the ability to store explosive energy in apparent calm.

At 8:00 a.m., he finally moved. Not with a jolt, but with deliberate slowness, lowering his arms and straightening his legs. He took a towel and wiped his face and neck. His expression showed no fatigue, only a deep and somewhat intimidating serenity.

Back in his room, after a quick, cold shower, he dressed in his black Antigen operative uniform. Then, he sat on the edge of his bed and picked up the Bible.

He didn't open it randomly. His thick, scarred fingers turned the pages with a reverent familiarity until they reached a passage marked by use. Ephesians 6:12.

His voice, usually a growl or a weapon, softened into a low, resonant murmur that filled the small room. He didn't sing, he didn't pray with emotion. He declared. Each word was a fact, a fundamental truth of his existence.

"For we wrestle not against flesh and blood," he began, his gaze fixed on the page, "but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places."

Every syllable carried the weight of his conviction. This was not an empty ritual. It was a reaffirmation of his purpose, of his personal war. He did not fight against men, or against lycans, or against vampires. He fought against evil itself, against the darkness that hid behind them. They were merely manifestations, flesh and bone corrupted by a higher spiritual force. He was God's warrior in a world that had forgotten His name, the instrument of a divine wrath against the "spiritual hosts of wickedness."

When he finished, he closed the book gently. He sat in silence for another minute, the echoes of the sacred words mixing with the stillness of his room.

The afternoon light, filtered through the high stained-glass windows of St. Michael's Church, painted columns of color onto the empty wooden pews. The smell of ancient incense and beeswax floated in the silent air, a profound contrast to the metallic, sterile smell of Antigen.

Darem was kneeling on a pew near the front, not out of performative devotion, but out of a need for alignment. His enormous figure seemed out of place in the peace of the sanctuary, like a wolf crouched in a garden. His hands, capable of crushing skulls, were interlaced with a calm that was unsettling. He followed the mass with military attention, every response, every genuflection, executed with mechanical precision but imbued with deep conviction.

He wasn't there for the homily or communion. He was there for the end. For the silence that came after.