Don't die, Damien!

And then suddenly the Alexander York gave a long, vibrating signal, which made the walls of Mark Tempe's cabin tremble. The man froze for a second, as if in indecision, but soon quickly came to his senses and mechanically looked at the paper that lay in front of him - a map of the Cambridge political prison. This place was his goal. His ex-wife, Harey Dunlop, was sitting there, in this terrible casemate, and he swore to free her for the sake of their common daughter, Molly Dunlop. The path to freedom was long and dangerous, but this map was supposed to help him in his noble cause.

Mark looked at the map and felt adrenaline fill his body. He saw again the imaginary picture of the harsh prison yard, where Harey walked among other prisoners, under guard, with her head down. This vision stood before his eyes and did not give him peace.

Trying not to waste a second, he quickly hid the map in his bag. Then, with the same speed and habitual determination, he began to put the revolvers there - fifteen of them in all. These revolvers were his insurance, his guarantee that there would be a force behind his every move if the plan did not go as he hoped. One by one, they disappeared under the towel, carefully covering them.

Having slammed the suitcase shut, Mark froze for a moment. Thoughts about what lay ahead were still ringing in his head, and the usual bustle was all around: the noise of passengers, laughter, the sounds of the sea. He exhaled and, without wasting any time, rose from his bunk. He quickly straightened his jacket, took the suitcase and headed for the door. Behind it he could hear the rustle of footsteps and the discussions of people who were also getting ready to leave.

When he opened the door, his face acquired an impassive expression. This expression had everything: determination, confidence, but also a deep pain that does not leave him despite his outward fortitude.

As he stepped out into the corridor, he quickly glanced around, expecting someone to appear who might interfere. The corridor was crowded with people. Passengers, bustling and talking, were gathering at the exits, preparing to disembark. The noise of footsteps, the clink of dishes, and hurried conversations could be heard. In this hectic movement, Mark struggled to get to the exit, feeling his heart beat in time with his accelerating pace.

Suddenly his gaze fell on a familiar figure. The bearded man, that strange companion, was there again. He was walking through the crowd, unhurriedly, as if he had not noticed that Mark had already given signs of his desire to be left alone. There was that strange, slightly stupid expression in his eyes again, as if he still did not fully understand that his presence was clearly not welcome.

Mark stopped, but barely kept himself from telling him to go to hell. Anger was boiling in his chest, from thoughts about this annoying guy. He was in no mood for more conversations or more offers of money. But here was the bearded man, getting closer and closer, and it seemed he wasn't even thinking about it.

"So, buddy," Mark said through clenched teeth when he came close enough, "want to get 'acquainted' again?"

The bearded man, not noticing a drop of displeasure in Mark's tone, shook his head with a smile:

"Not so fast, let's talk a little, I don't mind."

Mark only let out a strangled, barely audible sigh, trying not to show his irritation. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he were anywhere but here and with this man. But he had to restrain himself. After all, another scandal in this place could attract unnecessary attention, and he could not afford such a luxury.

"I told you," Mark continued, trying to make his voice as calm as possible, "I don't need your participation, especially if it's intrusive."

But the bearded man was no longer lagging behind. Together with Mark, he moved toward the gangway, making his way through the crowd of passengers. Mark's eyes were blazing with determination, but his face remained stony and imperturbable. His steps were quick, deliberate, as if he did not want to drag out this moment. The bearded man, like a shadow, walked alongside, slightly lagging behind, but still not allowing himself to disappear into the shadows.

Mark knew they would soon be on shore, and he tried to ignore the presence of this persistent companion. Too many questions, too much unnecessary conversation. He quickened his pace, almost bumping into one of the passengers. Suddenly, when they had already approached the gangway, the bearded man made another attempt to approach.

He extended his hand. His gaze was restless, even confused, as if he was missing some final point to complete their meeting.

Mark looked at his hand with irritation. He felt once again that disgust that appeared every time he reminded him of his existence. But there was nothing left to do but respond to his gesture. Mark's fingers tightened on the outstretched hand, but it was more an act of politeness than a sincere intention. He quickly shook his hand and, as if by inertia, without looking back, headed for the gangway.

Soon he was already standing on the ground, jumping off the last step, when he looked back. The bearded man was standing on the deck, not hurrying after him. He just stood there, silently, with some expression on his face, as if he didn't know what to do next. Mark, without thinking twice, turned around and stepped to the side, not looking back anymore, feeling how the empty space between them was getting wider and wider.

The bearded man did not follow him. He simply stood, watching him go, but did not move. And Mark, now standing on the solid ground of Cambridge, finally felt confident in every move he made. A strange feeling came over him - as if he were not just a man, but someone more - someone with determination and purpose. His black railway engineer's uniform, with his trousers impeccably tucked in and his tie neatly tied, made him look as if he had just been rushing to an important meeting or a meeting with high-ranking officials. But now this was his moment. He walked with his shoulders straightened, his steps becoming more and more confident, almost like a march.