Escape was his only option.

No one had bothered him in the room he’d been given. He wasn’t even sure if there was still someone in the apartment with him, except three times a day someone knocked and left food outside the door for him. It would be best if he got out of there before anyone returned. As he had sat alone, he thought back over the conversation he had overheard.

Neither of the Russians had seemed to care anything about him. That much was obvious since they were so willing to barter with the men that had wanted Mishca in the first place. Who was to say that if those men made the Russians an offer, they wouldn’t be more than willing to turn him over, or worse, kill him because of all that he had witnessed.

He couldn’t go to the police, especially since he didn’t know where he had been kept, and with the way these men acted, he doubted the police could help him.

Niklaus didn’t know what he was going to do, but he knew that staying put in another strange room with people he didn’t know or trust was not the best option.

Since there was nothing of his in the room, leaving this place was easier, though his heart did skip a beat when he exited the room and turned the corner, finding a man seated with a newspaper in hand. From the bulge at his hip, it was clear he was carrying a weapon, and with his proximity to the front door, there was no way Niklaus could get past him.

Trying to think of a quick plan, he shuffled through ideas, but was spared when an exclamation sounded from the kitchen, sending the guard in that direction. Grateful for the distraction, he quickly fled the apartment, foregoing the elevator for the stairs, taking them as quickly as he could.

Only a short while later he was outside breathing in the stench of exhaust and cold air, but after his time with those men in the building, Niklaus breathed it in deeply.

He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, glad that he could move more easily. Curious gazes shot in his direction, but no one offered to help him, nor did anyone give him a second glance. It was almost like he was invisible despite his appearance.

The adrenaline of his escape was wearing off, leaving him depleted before long. He didn’t think he could go any further. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so weak, and despite having ate only hours earlier, he felt lightheaded.

Turning down an alley, he dropped to the ground next to a dumpster, trying to catch his breath as a feeling of helplessness rose inside of him once more. Squeezing his eyes shut and balling his fists, he forced himself to swallow it all back down.

He survived, that was what mattered.

No matter what else, he had survived.

But at what cost…

Niklaus jerked his head up when he heard the clang of a bottle being kicked on the ground, fear seizing him as he thought they had already found him. With one eye still nearly swollen shut, it was hard to make out the man that was moving towards him. Even with that hindrance, the man seemed to stick to the shadows despite the looming sun, and only when he stepped into a small patch of sunlight could Niklaus even make out the silvery strands of his hair.

He was dressed in a black turtleneck, same colored trousers, and expensive looking leather shoes. Even with the scar that sat just above his top lip, he didn’t look to be any older than his early fifties.

“I’m not going back,” Niklaus uttered finding his voice, scanning the ground for a weapon of some sort. If they were going to try and take him, he would fight.

“That’s not my offer.”

While he might have spoken softly, he had a strong voice, one that made Niklaus pause in his movements, trying to see the man better. Another thing that made him stop was his lack of an accent.

“Who are you? Do you work for those Russians? Are you here to kill me?”

“Who I am is unimportant. I’ve come to offer you a gift.”

This was all some kind of fucking bad dream. Tomorrow, he would wake up with a hell of a hangover, in his hotel room with Sarah asleep beside him. There would be no Russians, no other crazy foreigners, and definitely not a mysterious man making him an offer in an alley.

“What kind of gift?”

“Vengeance against the Albanians that brought you to this point.”

Russians and Albanians? This was too much. Niklaus laughed bitterly, gesturing at himself. “I don’t think I can do anything. I couldn’t even help my…” He trailed off, refusing to finish that statement.

“But you will,” he went on. “Once you learn the trade of dead men.”

That didn’t even make sense. “What are you talking about? And what do you get out of this?”

“There’s only one way you can find out.”

Niklaus noticed then, the idling truck at the curb, black with tinted windows. Had they been following him the entire time?

“How do I know the Russian didn’t send you?”

The man with the white hair merely shrugged. “You don’t, but you can’t expect to hide from them forever, can you? They will find you, whether the Besniks or the Volkovs. Eventually, they will catch up to you. You know the police will be of no help, do you not? No matter how you spin the tale, the blame of your lover’s death will rest upon you by the time they finish with you. Is that what you want?”

He wanted to believe his story would be enough, that his own wounds would be enough, but the man’s words had him doubting himself.

He hesitated. He could walk away. He doubted the man would stop him if he tried, but like he said, he would only get so far before they found him again.

And after all he had suffered at their hands, did he not want revenge?

“What would I have to do?” Niklaus asked, meeting the man’s gaze.

Slowly, the man smiled as though that was the answer he had been waiting for.