When he took a step forward, his facial features became visible, calm, almost emotionless. He stopped at the threshold.
"You called?"
His voice was quiet. Completely devoid of any intonation.
Richard gave a short nod.
"Morwen."
The man took three more steps, exactly enough to enter normal conversation range without invading anyone's personal space.
His gaze slid across the room. Without greeting anyone, he was already noting exits, windows, distances between objects, possible lines of movement.
"Job?" he asked in the same even tone.
Richard straightened up.
He picked up a thin black folder from the table and slid it across the polished surface with one smooth motion.
The folder stopped precisely in front of Morwen.
He opened it.
On the first page,a photograph.
Ethan. The shot had clearly been taken from a distance: a man in a dark jacket walking down the street, head slightly lowered, hands in his pockets.
Morwen stared at the photo for exactly as long as it took to memorize it. Not a second longer.
He closed the folder.
"Deadline?"
"As fast as possible."
Morwen tilted his head slightly, a gesture that served as a nod.
"Understood."
He had already turned toward the door when Richard spoke again:
"Morwen."
The man froze.
Without turning fully, he only turned his head forty-five degrees.
Richard said calmly, without raising his voice:
"I don't just want him dead.
Bring me his head."
Morwen remained silent for several long seconds.
Then he answered, just as quietly and evenly:
"Alright."
And he left.
The door closed almost soundlessly.
A new silence settled over the room different from the one before his arrival.
"So it's begun."
Roy turned back to the window.
Morning had fully claimed the city. The sky was the color of wet asphalt. Somewhere beyond the buildings, an ordinary day was beginning.
And somewhere out there, still unaware of the invisible noose tightening around him, a man named Ethan continued living.
A few minutes after the door of the old house on the outskirts slammed shut behind Morwen, he was already in motion.
To him, the city wasn't a labyrinth, it was more like a map of veins and arteries through which information flowed.
He moved in short segments: on foot, then a taxi,always a different one, paid in cash, then on foot again, now in the industrial zone where every other streetlight was burned out and the air constantly smelled of rust and wet concrete.
He knew the approximate sector.
He knew the scent of fear left by people who had been running for too long. They couldn't have gone far, he thought.
And there it was,an old warehouse complex in the northeast, almost at the ring road. Two buildings: one abandoned, the second supposedly guarded, though the guards had long since traded their shifts for empty bottles and sleep in the guardhouse.
Morwen slipped past the broken fence without touching the wire. The soles of his boots made no sound even on the cracked tiles.
He stopped by the wall of the third hangar and listened.
Inside, he heard voices. Yes, he knew it was them.
A very thin, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. The corner of his mouth twitched once.
They already knew. Or almost knew.
Inside the hangar, the air smelled of machine oil, old rubber, and fear.
Four backpacks already stood by the exit, tightly packed and heavy. On the floor lay scraps of duct tape, an empty first-aid kit, and several used adrenaline syringes.
The only light came from a single portable lamp, and even that flickered whenever someone passed too close.
Ethan was on his knees, stuffing a pack of documents and two spare magazines into the side pocket of the last backpack. His hands moved quickly, but his fingers trembled slightly, not from the cold.
Gideon sat on an overturned crate, checking the slide of his pistol.
Click. Click. Click.
Each sound echoed in their temples.
Bruno silently rewrapped the bandage on his forearm. The fresh dressing was already soaking red at the edge. He didn't complain. He never complained.
And Flash…
Flash stood by the far wall, his back pressed against the cold metal. In his arms was Laska.
Right now she wasn't just angry. She was going insane.
Harsh, sharp, broken yelps,not barking, not growling, but a series of short, furious sounds, as if someone were plucking taut strings inside her. The fur on her neck and back stood on end all the way to her tail.
Ears flat, teeth bared.
She was staring fixedly at one spot, where the wall met the ceiling, into the dark corner under the beam.
Flash slowly crouched, trying to catch her gaze.
"Bullet… easy…" he whispered, but his voice trembled.
Laska wasn't listening. She lunged forward, nearly tearing herself from his arms, and let out another burst of short, furious sounds. Then she suddenly turned her head toward the ventilation grate high above.
Everyone froze. Ethan slowly raised his head.
"What is she smelling?"
Flash didn't answer right away. He pressed his palm to Laska's chest, feeling her heart hammering wildly.
"We've been found," he finally said, very quietly.
"She never acts like this if it's just a dog or a rat. This is… a hunter. And he's somewhere here."
Gideon was instantly on his feet. Pistol already in hand.
"Which side?"
Flash shook his head.
"I can't tell. She's… she's in a panic. This isn't normal."
"It's… a feeling. Like he's already inside the building. That's why she's losing it."