The car cut through the snow covered road as Sylas's phone vibrated once again.
An unknown number.
Again.
He glanced at the screen briefly, one hand still firm on the steering wheel. His brows furrowed, his lips thinning into a sharp line. He answered the call but before the other side could speak, his voice came out cold and sharp.
"Why do you keep calling me?"
A short pause.
"At this point, I'm starting to think you're a stalker. Or a psychopath."
There was silence on the line.
Then
The call ended.
Sylas let out a low, mocking breath. He stared at the phone for a second longer before casually tossing it onto the back seat. The device bounced softly against the leather.
"Ridiculous," he muttered.
He pressed the gas pedal.
When the gates of his villa opened, the stillness of the night welcomed him. Inside, he discarded his clothes without care and headed straight to the bathroom. As the hot water poured over his shoulders, he closed his eyes.
But his mind refused to quiet down.
An unfamiliar face.
A cold voice.
And an unsettling feeling he couldn't quite name.
"Forget it," he told himself.
The sound of the water swallowed his thoughts.
Morning/HotelRoom
Yuan Miyazaki was already awake.
The hotel room was silent. Gray morning light slipped through the curtains, falling across the edges of a file resting on the desk. Yuan sat down, removed his jacket, and opened it.
The first page.
Sylas Voskresensky.
Official documents followed.
A clear photograph at the top.
Yuan stared at the photo.
For a brief moment, his brows tightened just slightly.
Familiar.
But from where?
His eyes traced the image. Sharp features, cold eyes, a natural arrogance etched into his expression. Yuan lingered for a few seconds longer, then slid the file aside.
"…"
He couldn't remember.
He shrugged it off.
It didn't matter.
To him, names were just targets. Faces disappeared once the job was done. He moved on to the details.
Daily routines.
Security patterns.
Vehicle schedules.
Villa entrances and exits.
Yuan's gaze hardened.
I should finish this quickly, he thought.
The sooner, the better.
Russia wasn't a place he wanted to stay in. The cold was too sharp, the city too heavy. Lingering here meant unnecessary risk.
He picked up a pen.
The pieces began to align in his mind.
The Plan
Sylas Voskresensky was disciplined.
Predictably so.
Mornings were filled with meetings.
Evenings were mostly solitary.
Late at night security thinned.
Yuan wrote it down.
Weakest moment: late-night returns.
Safest location: inside the villa.
Riskiest but cleanest option: on the road.
The pen paused.
Yuan leaned back, closing his eyes. The scene formed in his mind timing, distance, escape routes.
He was calm.
Detached.
But for a brief second
The face from the photograph resurfaced.
The man from last night.
That voice.
Yuan opened his eyes.
"…A coincidence," he muttered.
He returned to the plan.
If I'm doing this, it will be flawless, he thought.
One chance. No mistakes.
He closed the file.
Checked his watch.
Time had begun to move.
And neither of them knew it yet
But they were already moving along the same trajectory.