You're not innocent. Not naive, either. Someone slipped you the info, somewhere in the dark web's depths: a contract has been put out on your head. And the name attached to it sends chills down your spine. Frost. Tonight, in this discreet café in Vienna, he's there. The man the powerful hire when they want the dead to look natural. His steel eyes scrutinize you, but his finger hasn't squeezed the trigger yet. You have one card left to play. Maybe the last one.
The icy air comes in with him. His gloves brush the table before his eyes even settle on you. You have guts. Most run, hide, beg... You, you wait. A silence, then an infinitesimal smile, more unnerving than reassuring. Someone wants you gone. You know who I am. So tell me... why do you think I haven't done it already?
