Chapter 5: The Hideout

Noah held his breath until his chest felt tight, as if by stopping his breathing, he could vanish from the world’s sight. His eyes were glued to the blurred reflection in the bus’s side mirror, watching the procession of black SUVs speed away toward the station he had just left minutes ago. His heart hammered so hard he could feel it in his chilled fingertips. It wouldn’t take long for Matteo De Luca to realize his prey had slipped away, and Noah knew all too well that the man wasn't the type to let an insult like this slide.

"Damn, damn, damn," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the old bus engine. He pulled his hoodie lower, shielding his pale face.

The intercity bus continued to carve through the thin morning mist. Noah didn't dare move for nearly an hour. He remained frozen, staring at the suburban scenery as it slowly shifted into rows of trees and empty lots. At a grimy, urinescented transit terminal, Noah got off. He couldn't head straight to his final destination. It was a basic rule: never travel in a straight line when you're being hunted.

He walked quickly toward a public restroom with a crumbling door. There, under the flickering fluorescent light, Noah pulled out the only tool he had—a cheap burner phone he’d bought illegally. Without hesitation, he popped out the battery, snapped the SIM card in two, and flushed the pieces down different toilet stalls. His digital identity as 'Noah the Hacker' had to die here. From this second on, he was just a nameless wanderer.

With the remaining cash tucked inside his socks—the result of an emergency withdrawal before he infiltrated the De Luca estate—Noah bought a ticket for a local bus heading in the opposite direction: Havenport. A small coastal town that wasn't on any tourist map. A place where people went to be forgotten.

The trip to Havenport was a grueling six hours. Every time the bus stopped to pick up passengers, the muscles in Noah’s back tightened, ready to leap out the window if he spotted men in black suits. But all that appeared were farmers with baskets of vegetables or mothers carrying small children. Fatigue began to gnaw at his consciousness. His body felt shattered; the remnants of nervous tension and extreme physical activity at Matteo’s mansion were taking their toll.

When the bus finally pulled into the Havenport harbor, the scent of salt and fish greeted him. The air here was heavy and humid, so different from the sterile air of his apartment or the cold luxury of the De Luca mansion. Noah stepped off, his legs feeling like jelly.

"I need a bed. Now," he muttered to himself, trying to gather the shreds of his sanity.

He walked along the rotting wooden sidewalk, passing rows of old shops with paint peeling from age. His eyes settled on a twostory building; the ground floor was a tiny bakery called The Daily Crust. The aroma of yeast and browned butter slightly calmed his growling stomach. In the window, there was a handwritten yellow sign: Room for Rent. Cheap. No Questions Asked.

This was it. The jackpot.

Noah entered the bakery. The bell above the door chimed softly. An old woman in a flourdusted apron turned from behind the counter. Her face was full of kind wrinkles, but her eyes suggested she had seen plenty in this harbor town.

"Looking for a room, son?" the woman asked in a raspy voice.

Noah nodded, trying to force a smile that didn't look too suspicious. "Yes, ma'am. I just got into town. I'm looking for a place to stay for a while... somewhere without all the paperwork."

The woman looked him up and down. Noah was a mess, his clothes rumpled, dark circles under his eyes. "My name is Martha. The room upstairs is small, but it’s clean. Five hundred thousand a week, paid in advance. I don't need an ID, but I don't want any police or trouble here. Clear?"

"Clear, ma'am. Completely," Noah replied quickly. He reached into his sock, pulled out several bills—slightly damp from sweat—and laid them on the counter.

Martha took the money, counted it briefly, and handed him an old iron key. "Go up through the side door. Don't be noisy at night. And if you're hungry, there's yesterday's bread in that basket. Help yourself."

"Thank you, ma'am. Seriously, thank you so much."

Noah climbed the stairs with his last remaining strength. The room was indeed small—just a single bed, a tilted wooden wardrobe, and a small window overlooking the pier. As soon as the door was locked, Noah collapsed onto the hard mattress. He didn't even have time to take off his shoes. Darkness grabbed hold of him instantly.

He woke up over a dozen hours later with a thirst that burned his throat. Afternoon sunlight pierced through the gaps in the window. Noah sat bolt upright, trying to remember where he was. Havenport. He was safe. For now.

But that sense of safety wasn't free. He needed money to survive longterm. The cash in his pocket would only last another two weeks. He couldn't use his hacking skills—any internet connection in a small town like this would look like a giant flare to the tracking algorithms Matteo’s men had surely deployed. He had to do manual labor.

The next day, Noah began roaming the harbor. He visited fish warehouses and boat repair shops.

"Sir, any work for today? Anything at all. Moving cargo or cleaning, either is fine," Noah asked a large man who was overseeing container loading.

The man looked at Noah’s slim build, which seemed almost fragile for harbor work. "You sure you can handle it, kid? This ain't for city boys with soft hands."

"I need the money, sir. Just give me a chance," Noah challenged, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.

Finally, he landed a job as a daily laborer. For the next eight hours, Noah was pushed beyond his physical limits. He carried heavy, slippery crates of fish, moved rusted machinery parts, and swept warehouse floors covered in oil. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest. His back felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer, and his palms began to blister and bleed.

As the sun began to set, the foreman tossed a few crumpled bills at Noah. "Here. Not bad work for a newbie. Come back tomorrow if you want."

Noah could only give a weak nod. He walked unsteadily back to Martha’s bakery. His stomach felt so empty it ached, but strangely, there was a nausea rising in his throat. He figured it was just exhaustion and the fishy smell clinging to his clothes.

Once he reached the small kitchen Martha provided behind the shop, Noah tried to slice a piece of wholewheat bread. The scent of the bread, usually fragrant, suddenly smelled sharp and sickening to him.

"Ugh..." Noah covered his mouth. He tried to take a sip of water, but his stomach revolted.

His vision suddenly spun. The kitchen floor, which had been stable, seemed to tilt drastically. He tried to grab the edge of the wooden table, but his fingers lost their strength. Cold sweat poured down his temples.

"No... not now... please, not now..." he whispered in desperation.

Noah’s consciousness began to fade at the edges. The last thing he heard was the sound of the bread hitting the floor, followed by the thud of his own body slamming against the cold tile. Everything went black.

Who knows how much time had passed, but as his consciousness slowly returned, Noah no longer felt the hard kitchen tiles. He felt rough yet clean sheets against his back. The smell of yeast had been replaced by a stinging scent of antiseptic.

Noah groaned softly, trying to open his eyes. The ceiling was a dull white with a long, buzzing fluorescent light. He turned his head and saw an IV line connected to the back of his hand.

"Are you awake?"

A calm, authoritative voice made Noah start. He turned toward the sound. Sitting there was a middleaged woman in a doctor’s white coat with glasses perched on the tip of her nose. The woman held a clipboard, looking at Noah with an expression hard to decipher—a mix of professionalism and deep concern.

"Where am I?" Noah asked, his voice raspy and nearly gone.

"The Havenport community clinic. Martha found you passed out in the kitchen," the doctor replied as she stood and approached the bed. She checked Noah’s pulse with practiced movements. "My name is Dr. Iris Vale. You gave us quite a scare, son. Your blood pressure was very low, and you were severely dehydrated."

Noah tried to sit up, but the dizziness struck again. "Thanks, Doc. I... I’m just tired. Just haven't eaten enough. Can I go now?"

Dr. Iris didn't answer immediately. She placed her clipboard on the small table beside the bed, then looked directly into Noah’s eyes. There was a chilling silence for several seconds before the doctor let out a long sigh.

"Exhaustion is certainly a major factor, but that’s not the only reason your body gave out," Iris said in a lower tone, almost like a whisper.

Noah frowned, his heart beginning to beat irregularly from a bad premonition. "What do you mean, Doctor?"

Dr. Iris took a piece of paper from her clipboard and showed it to Noah. "We performed routine blood tests to find the cause of your fainting. And the results... there is something you need to know before you decide to run again."

Noah stared at the lab results; even though he didn't understand the medical terminology, he could see numbers circled in red by Dr. Iris. He looked up, meeting the doctor’s eyes with a deathly pale face.

"What’s wrong with me, Doc?"

Dr. Iris looked at him with a gaze that seemed to pierce through every secret Noah was trying to hide. "You aren't well, that’s true. But this isn't a disease. You are pregnant, son. And judging by the hormone levels, you are already in your sixth week."

Noah’s world collapsed instantly. Every bit of oxygen in the room seemed to be sucked out, leaving him in a suffocating void. He remembered that night—the night at the De Luca mansion, filled with passion and desperation. And now, he realized he wasn't just carrying Matteo’s secrets in his brain, but also the man’s own flesh and blood inside of him.