Lena sat cross-legged on the bed, her laptop glowing in the dark room. Her friend was snoring lightly in the next bed, blissfully unaware that Lena hadn't slept a wink. She had headphones in, but there was no music playing. It just made her look normal if anyone checked.
Her eyes were glued to the screen. Another site, another hidden article. Her whisper filled the silence.
“Ivan Volk… who are you when the gun’s not in your hand?”
She clicked into a private forum—dark web chatter from a supposed ex-mercenary. A rumor.
> “Volk is back on the island. Always three men with him. Never sleeps in the same place twice.”
Lena
“Liar,” Lena muttered to the screen. “He’s been at the villa four nights in a row. Same balcony. Same chair. Same glass.”
She opened her notebook—not the one anyone could find. This one was kept inside a hollowed-out romance novel. She flipped to the newest page:
> Tuesday, 1:16 a.m.
Black SUV. Two guards. Ivan on balcony, smoking. No shirt. Third time same shirtless routine. Show-off.
He scratched his left shoulder. Tattoo? Scar?
Lena
Lena bit the end of her pen. “I need a better angle.”
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