"Relax, Mom," he'd chuckle, flashing his most reassuring grin. "I'm just enjoying life. Taking in the world. I promise I'll be careful."
Her sigh was heavy, but she eventually let it drop, muttering something about how boys will be boys.
By the fourth day, the idle indulgence lost its charm. As he sat by the hotel's private pool, watching sunlight ripple across the water, a sharper look crept into his eyes. He hadn't come all this way just for luxury and pretty pictures.
It was time to turn toward his real goal.
That afternoon, he packed up, checked out of the hotel—leaving generous tips that left the staff beaming—and set his sights on a quiet district on the outskirts of the city. There, hidden behind a facade of ivy-covered walls and an elegant iron gate, lay what the locals believed was just an exclusive boarding school for elite young girls.
But he knew better.
Inside those walls was the notorious Red Room, disguised perfectly, training the next generation of lethal Black Widows.
He approached the grand gates with a relaxed swagger, suitcase in hand. A discreet sign marked it as an elite international boarding academy—no tourists allowed, as a stern notice by the entrance made perfectly clear. When he rang the buzzer, a disembodied female voice crackled through the intercom.
"No tours. This is private property. Please leave."
But he only smiled lazily, tilting his head so the small security camera caught his face fully. "Oh, I'm not here as some gawking tourist," he said in fluent Russian, his voice dripping with casual arrogance. "I have business. I'm a client—here to arrange some... personal services from your talented graduates."
There was a tense pause on the line, the silence stretching long enough that most would have started to sweat. Then, with a faint metallic click, the gates slowly swung open.
Two stone-faced guards in smart uniforms met him on the other side, scanning him up and down. Their eyes narrowed at his stylish suit, sleek suitcase, and most of all—the face he wore. Sukuna's face. Eyes like pits of molten crimson, an almost inhuman curve to his grin, small tattoos snaking up from under his collar.
They clearly didn't like it, but they also didn't dare question it. One of them muttered into a hidden mic, while the other gestured stiffly for him to follow.
He was led through immaculate grounds—manicured hedges, white stone paths, the faint echo of distant ballet music drifting on the breeze. Eventually they reached an old building that looked like a mixture of classical mansion and institutional hall. Inside, the air was heavy with discipline and quiet menace.
An elderly woman waited there, seated behind a broad oak desk. Her sharp eyes flickered to him immediately, scanning every inch of his face. For a moment, her gaze turned calculating, almost suspicious—no doubt comparing his appearance to whatever databases the Red Room maintained.
But after a few tense seconds, her expression smoothed into professional courtesy. Their system found nothing—after all, this wasn't his original face. It was Sukuna's. A stolen visage that left no direct trail.
"Well then," the old woman finally said, voice cool and composed as she folded her hands together. "Welcome. I assume you know precisely the caliber of talent we cultivate here. If you're interested in a... specialized arrangement, I'll have someone draw up the preliminary paperwork."
His grin widened ever so slightly. "Perfect. I wouldn't want anything less than your best."
And just like that, the doors of the Red Room began to open to him—not through brute force or clumsy infiltration, but through quiet manipulation, careful misdirection, and the chilling aura that his new face projected.
Inside these walls, the next generation of deadly Black Widows danced on the edge of perfection. And he fully intended to pluck the most exquisite of them for himself.
Of course, that was only the start. Once he was done here, he planned to wipe this place off the map—slaughter every handler, instructor, and guard who had made their lives hell. Then he'd free the Widows, to do with them as he pleased. Though he doubted most would know how to live beyond this cruel machine.
Ryder beagn to follow this Old Woman, the old woman who had greeted him was none other than Director Belova herself, the iron-fisted matron overseeing this generation of Black Widows. She led him deeper into the sprawling compound, down a hushed marble corridor until they emerged into a wide chamber that looked like a twisted blend of dance studio and parade ground.
All around them, dozens of adult women—strikingly beautiful, bodies honed to lethal grace—were performing intricate ballet routines under the watchful eyes of grim instructors. Their movements were flawless, almost hypnotic. Belova gave a thin, prideful smile, gesturing at them with an airy hand.
"These are some of our finest," she said coolly. "Chosen not only for their talents as assassins, spies, and infiltrators, but also for… personal entertainment, should a patron such as yourself desire. Of course, you'll find they receive only the best treatment. Think of them less as people, more as investments—crafted products."
Ryder nodded, a faint smirk curling his lips. "Get me their personal files. After that, I'll decide who I'm taking."
Belova's eyes glinted. "Naturally. But first," she said, leaning forward ever so slightly, "I would like to verify your assets. We've had our share of frauds trying to bluff their way in. Payment is upfront, you understand. How many Widows do you intend to purchase?"
"Three," Ryder replied without hesitation.
"That will be ten million USD," she said crisply.
Ryder didn't even flinch. He pulled out a sleek card, effortlessly authorizing the transaction. The terminal beeped, and Belova's lips curved into a cold, satisfied smile. "Very well. Now we know you're serious. Come—let me show you the profiles."
She led him into a smaller, secure office lined with file cabinets and a single elegant chair, indicating he should sit. Then she brought out a stack of detailed dossiers and laid them on a polished table. "Here are their records. If any catch your interest, let me know—I'll have her brought in for a more… intimate inspection. They're all untouched, virgins in fact. Newly graduated, perfectly clean."