Two Days Later – Sweden, Outside a Luxury Hotel
The sleek, black SUV pulled up silently, almost imperceptibly, in front of an opulent hotel nestled amidst the quiet, refined luxury of Stockholm's upper districts. The hotel, with its elegant, classic architecture and glistening glass doors, exuded an unmistakable air of exclusivity—a place where only the truly powerful or the absurdly wealthy resided, even if only for a single night. Its facade seemed to shimmer faintly under the pale, Scandinavian sky.
The car door opened with a heavy, muted thud. A man stepped out.
Clad entirely in black—from his tailored suit and gloves to the heavy, polished boots that met the pristine marble driveway with a soft click—he carried the unmistakable air of someone who didn't want to be noticed, yet was, paradoxically, impossible to ignore. A cap hung low over his brow, casting a deep shadow that partially hid his face, while dark, impenetrable sunglasses obscured any trace of emotion in his eyes. Every step he took was precise, confident, and strangely burdened, as though he carried far more than just the sleek, black suitcase clutched in his hand.
This man was Thomas Willson.
As he entered the hotel lobby, a vast space of polished marble and hushed whispers, he passed between two perfectly poised receptionists, both young and strikingly beautiful women. They offered pleasant greetings in polished, melodic Swedish-accented English to guests as they passed, their smiles practiced and serene. But when their eyes met Thomas, their smiles faltered for the briefest of seconds—not from fear, but from the sudden, inexplicable heaviness that seemed to enter the room with him, a palpable sense of grim purpose.
Something about him screamed "trouble". A quiet, dangerous kind of trouble.
And yet, not a single guest turned to look, engrossed in their own worlds, not a single hotel staff member blinked or broke their professional facade. Whether due to impeccable training or an innate intuition for discretion, they knew not to question clients like him. Some guests simply belonged to a different stratum of existence, where rules bent and discretion was paramount.
One of the receptionists, her composure swiftly regained, stepped forward politely, her voice smooth and inviting. "Good afternoon, sir. May I help you? Do you have a reservation?"
Thomas gave a single, curt nod. "Yes." His voice was a low, gravelly murmur.
"Could you please provide the name for the booking?" she asked professionally, her fingers poised gracefully above her sleek, silver keyboard, ready to input the data.
"Black Swan," Thomas replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
A spark of recognition, fleeting and quickly masked, flashed in her eyes. It was a name known only to a select few, those who understood the hotel's discreet, high-level services. "And your verification code, sir?"
"1322."
She didn't hesitate. Reaching calmly under the desk, she retrieved two gleaming brass keys marked with room numbers. "Rooms 13 and 22. Here you are." She offered them with a polite, almost imperceptible dip of her head.
Thomas took the keys wordlessly, the cold metal brushing against his gloved fingers, and made his way to the hallway. He didn't glance at the colossal golden chandelier that sparkled above, nor the lavish, abstract artwork lining the walls of the opulent lobby. His feet took him straight, unerringly, to Room 13.
He didn't knock.
The key turned in the lock with a soft, precise click, and the heavy door creaked open into a room already shrouded in ambient light and the faint, inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Inside, a man sat at a small, round table positioned beside the window, bathed in the soft, diffused light of the afternoon. Steam rose languidly from the delicate porcelain cup held between his gloved fingers.
The man looked up, not surprised in the slightest by Thomas's silent entry. His face was obscured by the shadows cast by the window, but his posture was relaxed, almost casual. He raised his free hand with a subtle, casual flick of his fingers and gestured to the empty chair opposite him.
"Please, take a seat. It's not often I meet clients face to face," he said, his voice smooth as silk, cultured and calm. "I do hope you make this worth my time."
Thomas didn't acknowledge the gesture. He simply stepped forward, his heavy boots making no sound on the plush carpet, and dropped the sleek black suitcase onto the table with a heavy, resounding thud. With a swift motion, he snapped it open.
Inside lay bundles upon bundles of crisp hundred-dollar bills, stacked neatly and secured with official government bank bands. A small fortune, laid bare.
"Five hundred thousand," Thomas said in a low, tired voice, the weariness evident in every syllable. "As an advance. You'll get the rest after the job is done."
The man across the table—known only in the deepest, most shadowy underground circles as Mr. L—did not even glance at the money. His gaze remained fixed on his coffee, which he calmly stirred, as if the vast sum of cash was the least interesting thing in the luxurious room.
"I did my research," Mr. L said calmly, his voice a low, even murmur. "That incident in New York... it was no small matter. And if you're asking what I think you're asking..."
He leaned back in his chair, the shadows deepening to hide his expression, making his features indistinct.
"One million won't cut it. You're asking me to pick a fight with a monster." His voice carried a subtle weight, a hint of disdain.
A slow, bitter smirk grew on Thomas's face. Then, with a soft, almost painful chuckle, it bloomed into full-blown, mirthless laughter.
It wasn't the laugh of someone amused—but the raw, bitter laugh of a man far too tired, too broken, to care about the usual decorum. A laugh born of desperation and an unsettling certainty.
Mr. L's eyes narrowed, a flash of annoyance. "What exactly do you find so funny, sir? Are you mocking me?"
Still chuckling, a harsh, grating sound, Thomas shook his head slowly. "No. I'm just wondering what you think you'll do with more money—buy a nuke? Please. Even the U.S. military, with all its might, couldn't kill that thing. Don't kid yourself."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a cold, chilling whisper that promised death.
"You don't have to fight the monster. Hell, you wouldn't survive it even if you tried. Your job is simple: kill the man before he becomes the monster."
With that, Thomas pulled a thin, brown folder from his coat pocket and slid it across the polished table, letting it come to rest near the untouched money.
"Everything you need is in there. Name. Photos. Last known location. Routines. Patterns. All of it."
Mr. L finally looked away from his coffee, his gaze shifting, almost reluctantly, toward the folder, his interest piqued.
"You'll receive the rest of your payment when it's done," Thomas said as he rose from his chair, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the table. His voice lowered further, to a barely audible whisper, a challenge.
"If you're too scared, just say so now. There are plenty of others who'd gladly take your place."
He didn't wait for a reply.
Thomas turned, headed toward the door, and opened it in one swift, fluid motion, the soft click of the latch echoing faintly in the quiet room.
Just before stepping out, he paused, his hand still on the doorknob, his back to Mr. L.
"Good luck on the mission," he said without looking back, his voice flat, devoid of genuine well wishes, and then disappeared into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him with a final, definitive sound, leaving Mr. L alone with the open suitcase of money and the grim task within the folder.