Winter's phone rang. He glanced at the number and answered the call.
A man's voice came through the phone: "Sir, I just got some news. There's a survivor from that crashed plane, drifted for two days in the sea, washed to the shore and rescued by local fishermen. The rescue happened on a small island; I'll send you the coordinates..."
Winter's hand tightened suddenly around the phone, "Alright, I understand. Send it right away..."
After receiving the coordinates, Winter immediately grabbed his meager belongings, picked up the keys, and dashed downstairs.
It was a little past three in the afternoon. Due to the overcast weather, it appeared quite dark outside.
At the front desk, Winter coldly said, "I want to check out."
This was a small and dilapidated inn, with many years behind it. Sitting at the front desk was the owner, a woman in her thirties, voluptuous and very coquettish.
Her eyes were filled with greedy desire, coveting Winter.
