' Needing help is one thing , wanting it is another . '

Chapter 1 : ' Fight , Flight , and Freeze . '

Today is just another beautiful morning, with the sun shining brightly and the fluffy clouds scattered across the sky.

Curtains are pulled back and a window is opened, with a man looking outside breathing in the fresh air.

"Today I think I will reorganize the file cabinet, it's in need of a good spring cleaning", He mutters to himself.

"It's such a lovely day, I might even clean up the bookcase today. Of course, I don't feel that productive." 

As he closes back the window, he stretches and groans, getting ready for the tedious and repetitive task that lies ahead of him.

If you are wondering, this is Stephen. Stephen Ficklemeyer, more specifically. He is a man of habit, and is stuck in his ways. 

As the wind blows through the trees, and the smell of coffee begins to fill the air inside his office, he begins his work, busily rummaging through his desk and sorting out paperwork.

"I had forgotten how exhausting going through my files was... if I didn't know any better, I'd believe a pack rat lives here." He grumbles, already beginning to give up on cleaning up his cabinet. 

After little while, he finally got into the groove of reorganization. Deep in his thoughts, he starts planning out what is going to go where, how's this going to fit in this small drawer, and WHAT is that mysterious box and what's in it?

A knock on the door is heard, the person knocking lets themselves in.

"Dad! I finally ironed your sweaters for you!", The figure exclaimed. Stephen, snapping out of his thoughts after being engrossed with them for so long. 

"Oh, Harrison!", He says with widened eyes, "Thank you, I thought you'd never get to them. I know how busy you are of late."

"I'm never too busy to do anything for you, dad." Said Harrison, with a big smile smacked on his face.

Stephen places the sweaters on his desk, continuing to work on the file cabinet, as Harrison walks out the room; waving goodbye and closing the door as Stephen waves back, a small smile can be seen on his face.

Some time passes, and the office is slowly being reorganized and cleaned up.

Stephen sits at his desk, drinking a cup of coffee and going through paperwork and old files. Suddenly, the phone rings.

Stephen puts his coffee mug down on its coaster, hesitate to answer. He can't put his finger on it, but there's something about this call. I mean, it's not saved in his phone, and he only talks to a handful of people.

He finally picks up the phone, only to hear nothing but silence.

Confused, he mutters a small "Hello?" to the person on the other end of the line. After a few minutes of complete silence and static, a voice is heard.

"...Hello? Please can you help me?", The voice whispers out to Stephen.

The voice, it sounds masculine. With a thick Slavic accent.

It sounds. . . oddly familiar to him. The voice calls out to him again, ". . . Please, don't hang up. I need your help." The voice pleads to him.

"Who even are you?", Stephen asks; his face turns pale, while his hands shake in complete horror.

Crackling and groaning can be heard on the other side of the phone, as the voice sighs in defeat. He finally answers, "Do you not remember all the sparing matches we had? Or maybe even the patrol watches we used to go on?"

Stephen searches through his memory, trying to pinpoint who this is. I mean, he's been lots of patrol watches, and he's had plenty of sparing matches with people.

"I simply don't know who you might be! I've seen and fought lots of people, including whoever you might be. Could you be more. . . I don't know, specific?" Stephen says snappily, growing impatient.

The voice bitterly replies: "My name is Dominik Romanov Jr, firstborn son to Dominik and Ivanya Romanov. I was also your closest friend."

"At least, that's what I thought. It seems you've forgotten me."

Silence befalls the room. Stephen's breathing starts getting heavier and heavier, as he sinks into his chair; processing the information just given to him.

"...Please forgive me," Stephen says while clenching onto his phone for dear life, his voice trembling, "I... I had no idea. It's been years, decades even since we've last talked."

"I haven't forgotten you, I assure you. I think about you all the time." 

"It will be the last time we talk if you don't come quickly.", Dominik replies bluntly.

"Why? And where am I going, you haven't told me anything!" Stephen frantically cries out.

"I'm bleeding out on the floor, Stephen. I'm dying here."

"My address is XXXX street, near XXXX avenue in my hometown. I'm not sure if you'll make in it time, but please... come quickly." Dominik mutters, his voice seemingly getting weaker every idle moment.

"I'll be right there. Please try and hold on just little longer."

"I hope to see you soon."

The phone is hung up, it's now time to get ready to go.

Stephen writes down the address on a piece of paper, putting it in his pocket. He gets up from his desk and rushes towards his coat rack, taking off a trenchcoat and hastily puts it on.

He runs down the stairs, opening the front door only to realize he's missing something: "The car keys!", he yells out, hurriedly running back up the stairs and into his bedroom to get them.

Stephen goes back downstairs, flying out the front door. He starts his car and he's off.

Soon, the thoughts start pouring in: 'What if this isn't Dominik?', 'What if this is a trap?', 'What if I'm putting myself and my family in a dangerous situation?', and so on. 

But... at the same time, wouldn't you go out of your way to help someone dear to you?

— to be continued.