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When the truth broke, when the world found out that Alex Rider had been a teenage spy forcibly recruited and used by MI6, the fallout was immediate and brutal.

Headlines screamed “MI6’s Child Soldier” and “Teen Assassin or National Hero?” across every major network. There were interviews with unnamed sources, retired agents, and even former classmates giving conflicting accounts of who he was. The media storm didn’t care about nuance. He was either a pawn or a threat, a hero or a monster—never a boy.

Alex was seventeen when the world turned against him. He was arrested under pressure from foreign governments demanding accountability, placed into the custody of external forces while politicians debated whether to try him as a criminal or crown him a war hero. Even MI6 tried to distance themselves, throwing him to the wolves to preserve their image. Alan Blunt, cold and calculating as ever, denied any responsibility. 

The first weeks in the high-security facility were a disorienting blur. Alex’s cell was sterile, barren save for the bare minimum—a narrow cot, a table bolted to the wall, a flickering light above. The fluorescent hum became a constant presence, draining any semblance of peace from his thoughts. The walls pressed in, the cold air was thick with a sense of injustice, and every day felt like a drawn-out eternity.

He was treated like a volatile asset, dangerous, unpredictable. His meals were delivered through a small slot in the door, often cold, unappetizing. He barely saw sunlight, and when he did, it was through a small barred window too high to reach, too far to touch. Exercise periods were brief, confined to a cement yard with high walls that kept him locked in. Every motion was scrutinized. The guards’ eyes never left him. Any attempt to engage them was met with indifference.

Psychologists came and went, their faces a blur of professional detachment. Alex could barely recall their names, only the generic notes they scribbled about his “psychological state.” They couldn’t see the turmoil behind his eyes, couldn’t understand the burden of his past. They spoke to him as if he were just another case file. Their assessments were meaningless.

The court, when it finally convened, was no better. Behind closed doors, the debate over his guilt or innocence was held in secrecy. The media, forever ravenous for any shred of a scandal, spun stories without care for truth. There was no room for the nuanced reality of what had happened to him—just binary judgments.

Then came the testimony from K-Unit. Alex never expected it, but they came for him, nonetheless. Wolf, Eagle, Snake, and even Fox—one by one, they took the stand to vouch for him. Their voices rang out, louder than he had ever heard before. They spoke of MI6’s manipulation, of how they had seen Alex grow from a boy who wanted to survive to a young man who was forced into their world.

The court ruled that Alex had been coerced, manipulated, and violated by his own government. He was released, but his freedom was not unencumbered. No weapons training, limited travel, and mandatory therapy sessions. The restrictions were supposed to protect him, but in reality, they were just another set of chains. Invisible, but binding.

Alex tried to disappear.

He took a job in tech under an alias, working on backend systems for a company that never asked questions. But the anonymity didn’t last. Someone leaked his location to the press, and suddenly, the company that had hired him was caught in the spotlight. Fearful of the media circus, they fired him. His coworkers, once polite and respectful, became distant. Some were fascinated by him, others afraid. A few tried to speak to him, but even they were wary of his past.

The harassment didn’t end there. Alex found himself the target of strangers who recognized him on the streets. He was spat on once in the Underground, another time a man yelled “assassin” at him for simply existing. The media hounded him relentlessly. Some of them had no qualms about using his tragedy to elevate their own careers. There were interviews with former classmates—people who had barely known him, now profiting off of the horrific story that had become his life.

The mounting pressure pushed him into homelessness. He was fired, hunted by paparazzi, and overwhelmed. A few weeks in temporary housing were followed by the return of K-Unit. Wolf found him first. There were no questions, no judgment, just a quiet promise: they would protect him.

It was in that safe house that Alex filed his lawsuit against MI6.

The legal battle that followed was grueling. The powers that be did everything they could to delay, obfuscate, and stonewall him. But Alex persisted. He was no longer a pawn. He had learned, through all of it, how to navigate a system that once sought to control him. When the court ruled in his favor, the financial compensation wasn’t what mattered most. What mattered was the official recognition of his suffering as state abuse.

Public opinion shifted slightly. Some people began to see him not as a criminal, but as a victim of a much larger system. It didn’t erase the hate, but it gave him the space to breathe.

Alex applied to university, studying law. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He had been trained to obey orders, to take life, to do things that were unimaginable for someone his age. Now, he was learning to interpret the very laws that had been used to manipulate and control him.

He kept a low profile. He sat quietly in lectures, rarely spoke unless called on. Some professors knew who he was. A few tried to ignore it. Others didn’t bother. One professor asked him to explain the legal implications of coerced government work using “a case like Rider’s” as an example. Another professor, who had been an advocate for legal reform, discussed his case as an inspiration for systemic change.

A few students treated him like a curiosity. Others, with more respect, treated him like a person—quietly standing by him, defending him when others made cruel jokes or whispered about his past. He found a semblance of peace, even in the chaos of his notoriety.

Alex began working at a legal aid clinic on campus. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it felt like a way to rebuild. He was helping others, offering them a semblance of the care that had been denied to him. For the first time, he felt like he was building something, not just surviving it.

One day, Tom reached out. Tom Harris, Alex’s old friend. It had been a long time since they’d spoken, and things had changed, but the message was simple: “Meet me? Just catch up. Nothing heavy.”

Alex agreed. It had been so long since he’d seen anyone from his past, and despite the awkwardness between them, there was still a part of him that wanted to reconnect.

What Alex didn’t know was that Tom had organized a small gathering. Other old schoolmates were there too—people who had talked to the press, who had cashed in on their proximity to him when everything had exploded. The tension was immediate. No one expected Alex to show up. No one expected him to stay.

Conversations were polite at first, but they quickly turned passive-aggressive. Then, one of the former classmates, James, let it slip that he’d talked to the press back when everything first broke, “because it felt like a once in a lifetime thing.”

That was when Alex stood up. He didn’t yell. He didn’t lash out. He simply said, “They made money off what broke me,” and walked out.

Tom followed him, apologizing, but Alex wasn’t angry. He wasn’t surprised, either. This was the world now. Everyone had an opinion about him. Everyone wanted a piece of his story. But Alex had learned the hard way that not everyone deserved to have that power.

More time passed. Alex kept studying. He kept working. He didn’t let the past define him. He wasn’t running from it anymore.

He was invited to speak at a university panel about legal ethics. Not as a student—but as a case study. The irony, again, wasn’t lost on him.

He declined. But a few weeks later, in a lecture hall, a professor asked him for his insight on coerced consent in government contracts. Asked him to explain—without saying it out loud, what had happened to him.

Alex stood. His voice was steady. He told the class that legality wasn’t morality. Governments could dress up manipulation in paperwork, but it was still abuse. He said surviving something didn’t mean it stopped hurting. He told them that sometimes, the most important thing wasn’t the law—it was the human cost of breaking it.

Afterward, a professor who had been cold toward him all semester approached him. She apologized. “I didn’t know how young you really were when it happened,” she said.

Some students approached him too. Quietly, with respect. They didn’t ask for his story. They simply acknowledged him for the first time as Alex Rider, the person, not the symbol.

The media still followed him, but it was quieter now. Less venomous.

Then, one day, Alex was harassed again. A conspiracy theorist cornered him outside a bookstore. The man grabbed him, demanding to know the truth. Without thinking, Alex reacted.

One sharp move, clean and precise, and the man crumpled to the ground, arm dislocated. The scene was captured on a passerby’s phone and quickly went viral. The media, ever eager to sensationalize, dubbed it “Spy Boy Strikes Again.” MI6 remained silent, offering no support or condemnation. However, a former politician, once a critic of Alex, publicly defended his right to live without fear. The tide began to turn.

This time, Alex didn’t run. He returned to class, sat for his exams, and passed. He started dating again, slowly and carefully, learning to trust in small, cautious steps. He reconnected with old friends, like Wolf, who called occasionally to check in and express pride in his progress. Jack, still a constant presence in his life, sent daily texts filled with updates and encouragement.

He graduated in the top ten of his class. The ceremony was subdued, the applause polite but distant. The world still saw him through the lens of his past, but Alex had learned to navigate it with quiet resilience.

A job offer came from a nonprofit focused on legal advocacy for exploited youth. He accepted, eager to use his experiences to help others. It wasn’t the life he had imagined, but it was his own—a life built on his terms.

He visited his old flat once, the one he had lost after the media storm. Someone else lived there now. He didn’t knock. He just stood there for a moment, memories flooding back, before walking away.

At the end of the year, his case was mentioned in a lecture again. This time, the professor asked the class if they thought what happened to Alex Rider was justice or failure. Someone said, “Both.”

Alex raised his hand.

“I think it was survival,” he said. “And survival isn’t clean. It’s messy, and painful, and you don’t always get to choose the way you live through it. But it counts. It still counts.”

The professor nodded.

The class was silent again.

This time, the silence felt like respect.