In a room at an upscale hotel in Sweden, five people—three men and two women—sat in a stifling atmosphere, each occupied with their own task.
The two women sat facing each other. One wore a white turtleneck sweater and held a magazine, as quiet as a white lotus in the snow, giving off an aloof air. The other wore a black deep-V dress, exposing a broad expanse of pale skin. She sipped red wine with crimson lips, sensual as fire and carrying the allure of the night. An invisible sense of rivalry hung between them.
The other three were occupied as well. A bearded man held a copy of "Home on the Ruins," reading it intently with a blank expression. The other two stood by the window, looking at the view—one burly, one lean, a stark contrast.
No one spoke, as though they were waiting for something.
"When do you think our homeland will ever be as peaceful as this?" the lean man standing by the window suddenly asked, breaking the oppressive silence.
The moment his voice fell, a slight stir ran through the quiet room. The other four glanced at him, then continued what they had been doing as if nothing had happened.
The bearded man put down his book, tilted his head in thought, and answered with unusual seriousness.
"When the Grim Reaper arrives."
His answer plunged the room into silence once more.
"Instead of talking about pointless things, we should discuss who our target is this time," the burly man by the window said after taking a puff on his cigar.
"It should be that Huaxia man," the lean man said.
"My intuition tells me it isn't that Huaxia man." The woman in the white turtleneck put down her magazine and spoke softly.
The moment she spoke,