Chapter Three – Preparing the Silence
Soren's face hardened into a scowl as he hung up sharply on Kaiser.
He gently placed the cat, Raya, on the floor, then walked to the window and stared out over the city, his eyes frozen, unmoving.
He whispered:
"Damn it… damn them all."
Moving slowly toward one of the shelves, he reached for an old book and pulled it out in silence.
A faint creak filled the room…
The wall beside him shifted inward slightly, revealing a hidden compartment bathed in soft, pulsing blue light—like something breathing quietly in the dark.
Before him lay a neatly arranged collection of weapons and specialized gear.
He stepped forward and pressed a hidden switch…
A black suit slid out—neither formal nor flashy. It was functional… deadly.
The fabric was light and flexible, waterproof and stain-resistant, lined with puncture-resistant material in vital areas.
The stitching was precise, unobtrusive, yet designed to support fluid movement.
The buttons were smooth, matte black; the collar was short and upright—like the edge of a blade.
The pockets were hidden: a small one at the left wrist, and another inside—for documents or precision tools.
No logos. No name. Just silent blackness… like its wearer.
Beside the suit, he picked up a simple mask, reminiscent of a shadow warrior:
> It wasn't ornate or striking. Just a black cloth that covered the lower half of the face up to the nose, leaving only the eyes exposed.
It was made of a breathable weave, filtering dust and softening the sound of his voice.
The inside was padded with flexible fibers to keep it in place during combat or when running.
In the daylight, it looked like a cyclist's mask.
But at night, under dim lighting… it became a face without features.
Soren dressed in the suit and mask with absolute silence—as if donning another identity.
Then he opened a drawer and drew a compact pistol:
Walther PPK—sleek and made for covert operatives.
Its grip was smooth yet firm, coated in a matte, non-reflective black.
Equipped with an integrated suppressor, barely adding to its size.
It wasn't meant for combat… but for silent resolution.
One bullet was enough… and no one would hear it.
He took a deep breath, ran his hand over a pair of thin black gloves, and pulled them on with steady precision.
Then he headed for the back door, opened it cautiously, and scanned his surroundings.
The streets were nearly empty.
Streetlights shimmered across the asphalt. The night was holding its breath.
He stepped toward his black car—unmarked, silent.
He opened the door, slid inside, and started the engine with a sound too faint to notice.
The car rolled forward slowly… like a murder intent with no warning.
As he drove, he reviewed the mission in his mind:
Every symbol. Every location. Every possibility had been calculated.
Any unexpected shift… could cost blood.
As he neared the site, he slowed down, watching every corner, checking for cameras or wandering eyes.
He parked in a distant shadow, stepped out, and adjusted his mask tightly into place.
He advanced with quiet, deliberate steps toward the targeted building.
And in the last of the shadows, he whispered to himself:
"The night begins the hunt."