Page 78 of Obsessive Vows

Disconnected words without context. References requiring speaker identification we haven't achieved. Digital images corrupted through encryption protocols that damage file integrity during interception.

I scroll through the decryption interface, searching for patterns amid technological chaos. Keywords appear with greater frequency—"secure," "parameters," "protocol," "arrangements." References consistent with counter-surveillance communication but lacking specific context.

A file fragment catches my attention—partially decrypted image recovering slowly on the monitor. The algorithm processes pixel by pixel, creating recognizable content from digital corruption with agonizing slowness.

Colors emerge first—pale skin tones, dark hair, lightweight fabric. Human figure taking shape through digital reconstruction. The image resolution improves incrementally, revealing...

A child.

An infant with dark hair and pale skin, looking directly at the camera with startling intensity. The face partially resolved but clearly visible—chubby cheeks, rosebud mouth, eyes that seem focused despite infant neural development typically preventing such direct gaze.

"Enhancement complete on priority file segments," Anton's voice barely penetrates my focused attention. "Medical database access achieved."

The image completes its final processing, resolution clarifying with digital detail that steals breath from my lungs.

A baby. Perhaps three or four months old based on developmental indicators. Dark hair like Anastasia's. Facial structure still forming but showing characteristics that trigger recognition before conscious analysis completes.

But the eyes.

Silver-gray eyes staring from the screen with unmistakable intensity. My eyes. The Baranov genetic marker passed through generations despite Soviet attempts to erase our bloodline. Eyes identical to those I see in the mirror each morning.

"Viktor?" Anton's voice penetrates the roaring in my ears, concern breaking through his professional detachment. "Database extraction completed. Medical records from private Swiss clinic indicate?—"

"She was pregnant." The words emerge as statement rather than question, certainty forming like physical weight in my chest. "In Switzerland. During her alleged diplomatic training."

Anton's silence confirms the assessment before he provides verification. "Private obstetric clinic in Geneva. Registration under alias but biometric identifiers confirm Anastasia Markova. Admission date corresponds with approximately seven months after Paris. Discharge with healthy female infant following uncomplicated delivery."

The timing aligns with mathematical accuracy. The night in Paris. The sudden departure for Switzerland arranged shortly afterward. The birth of a child with my silver eyes and Anastasia's dark hair. A daughter hidden through elaborate security measures, protected from both her father's organization and the man who never knew she existed.

"Status report on target subject?" My voice emerges emotionless despite the emotional storm building beneath. Years of combat experience providing language when human emotion threatens to overwhelm me.

"Subject secure at secondary safe house following extraction protocols. Communication blackout lifted approximately fourteen minutes ago."

"Prepare transport to her location." The command brooks no argument or ethical consideration. "Priority clearance through all security checkpoints."

"Viktor." Anton's use of my name rather than a distant designation signals a shift from professional to personal concern. "Consider the implications before confrontation. Emotional response creates vulnerability?—"

"Prepare the transport." My tone ends further discussion, combat authority breaking through the partnership that has defined our years of shared mission. "And continue decryption of all communication fragments. I want every recovered word, every partial image, every digital trace related to the child."

To my daughter.

The phrase forms in my mind with devastating impact, shattering remaining vestiges of professional detachment. A daughter I never knew existed. A child with my eyes hidden through elaborate security measures. A life created from a momentary connection in Paris darkness.

My muscles tense and release in rhythmic sequence—a combat preparation ritual that helps process emotional upheaval through physical movement. I focus on my breathing, on the weight of the weapon at my back, on anything concrete rather than the impossible reality unfolding before me.

The drive to Anastasia's safe house passes in controlled silence, combat readiness humming beneath surface calm that masks emotional turmoil. Each kilometer bringing me closer to confirmation of analysis already certain in my gut.

The security checkpoint recognizes command authorization without question. Guards step aside with deference that would satisfy ego if anything reached beyond the singular focus consuming my awareness.

She awaits in the main room, changed from formal attire into simple black clothing that emphasizes pale skin and dark hair. Her posture reveals nothing of the vulnerability shared at the Baranov estate, perfect Bratva princess mask firmly in place.

"Security breach contained?" she asks with professional detachment that now rings hollow. "Petrov faction neutralized?"

I say nothing, merely extracting the secured tablet from an internal pocket of my jacket. The image displayed with perfect digital clarity—our daughter staring from the screen with my silver eyes and her dark hair. The unmistakable truth neither Bratva training nor diplomatic skill can explain away.

Her reaction confirms everything analysis has already verified. Color draining from her face despite iron control. Pupils contracting with shock despite preparation for potential discovery. Hands clenching briefly at sides before deliberate relaxation forced through disciplined response.

"How did you—" She stops, professional mask cracking briefly before reasserting itself with visible effort. "Your surveillance operation extended further than anticipated."

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