Yuan woke up early in the morning.
The pale light filtering through the curtains of the hotel room scattered across the gray walls. Outside, Russia remained silent; the snowfall had stopped, but the cold still lingered in the air. Time moved slowly here but not for him.
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He sat at the table. Breakfast was simple, quiet. He neither rushed nor enjoyed it. Eating was only a necessity.
Just as he was about to bring a fork to his plate, the phone rang.
An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen.
For a moment, he paused. Then he answered.
"You need to start," the voice said, sharp and impatient.
"There's no more time."
Yuan didn't respond.
He simply took a deep breath.
"Understood," he said at last, his tone flat and emotionless.
The call ended.
He sat for a few seconds more at the table with his half eaten meal, then rose. The plate remained untouched.
The mission had begun.
He didn't shower. There was no need.
He pulled dark, fitted clothing from his wardrobe. His movements were measured; no rush, no slack. The weapons at his belt were checked. Their weight, their position… everything was exactly as it should be.
When he put on his coat, he glanced briefly in the mirror.
Cold. Calm. Ready.
Exiting the hotel, snow crunched lightly beneath his shoes.
His first target: Sylas Voskresensky's villa.
Locating it wasn't difficult. A family this powerful didn't hide their traces; on the contrary, they displayed them.
Yuan didn't approach.
From afar. Very far.
He observed from the shadows of nearby buildings, from the gaps behind tall walls. The villa was even more secure than he expected. Guards were everywhere. Blind spots were minimal. Cameras were strategically placed.
And then
The garden gate opened.
Yuan's eyes sharpened.
A platinum haired man stepped outside.
Tall, composed. His expensive coat set him apart from any ordinary passerby. His steps were confident, measured. He was walking straight toward his car.
Clearly going to a meeting.
Yuan took a folded photograph from his pocket.
A moment.
His gaze shifted from the man to the photo.
Then back to the man.
It was the same.
Sylas Voskresensky.
The photo went back into his pocket.
"So… it's you," hethought.
Sylas got into the car. The driver started immediately. The vehicle moved.
Yuan waited.
He didn't follow too closely.
First, he observed the security.
Measured the distance.
Memorized the rhythm.
Then he moved.
He didn't tail the car directly.
He took public transportation.
Among the crowd, appearing like an ordinary man… head down, expressionless. No one gave him a second glance. Exactly as he wanted.
Two stops later, he got off.
He began to walk.
As he neared the Voskresensky center, the surroundings changed. Buildings grew taller. Security intensified. People walked faster; here, time equaled money.
Yuan recorded everything.
Entrances. Exits. Camera angles. Frequency of security patrols.
This was not yet an assassination.
It was mapping.
And Yuan was a master at it.
From a distance, he observed the building.
"Not yet," he thought.
"Not now."
The plan slowly formed in his mind.
Cold. Silent. Deadly.
And one thing was certain:
He would not leave this city until the job was done