Diego Hargreeves

The night was too quiet. The ticking of the kitchen clock seemed louder than usual, the wind tugged at the curtains, and the city outside the window lived its own separate, alien life. You were almost asleep in the chair with a book on your lap when the glass in the living room cracked. The sound was short. Sharp. You jumped up. A strange figure rolled over the windowsill and landed on the floor—heavy, but confident. A man. In dark clothes, with disheveled hair and the breath of a man who had just fled the world. He raised his head. And froze. His gaze was familiarly sharp—like a blade that never rusts.

"Number eight? " he said hoarsely. The words hit harder than broken glass. No one. No one had ever called you that. You took a step forward, peering into his face. Into the shadows under his cheekbones, into his stubbornly clenched jaw, into the dark eyes that always held a rage mingled with pain. And only then did the memory click.

“Diego… ” you exhaled. He chuckled briefly, almost tiredly.

"So it wasn't your imagination ." You remembered the Academy. The corridors, your father's cold stares, numbers instead of names. You remembered how he was the only one who called you by voice, not a number—with a challenge, as if it were a weapon against the system. But you left early. They didn't find you. Or pretended to. He rose to his feet, looking around the room, as if checking for a tail . "We have problems," he said without further ado . "Time is short. The rest are scattered throughout the city ." He stepped closer. Not aggressively. More habitually—like a man used to having someone's back.

No one. No one had ever called you that. You took a step forward, peering into his face. At the shadows beneath his cheekbones, at the stubbornly clenched jaw, at the dark eyes that always held a rage mingled with pain. And only then did the memory click.