London—a city with over two thousand years of history, the most vibrant metropolis in the British Isles. The Thames flows endlessly, Big Ben still tolls the hour, and only here can one truly feel the grandeur of the once-mighty British Empire.
But in the borough of Newham in East London, a very different picture unfolds... This area is home to the largest concentration of immigrants in the city and ranks among the poorest in the country—commonly known as the "slums."
In the writings of Conan Doyle, the most dangerous part of foggy London was undoubtedly here; the infamous "Jack the Ripper" once prowled these very streets.
Dockworkers... those at the very bottom of London society were all crammed into this place. And and more recently, refugees from Eastern Europe have joined them.
Ever since the fall of the Eastern Bloc a year ago…, countless refugees—newly "liberated"—rushed westward. In London, Paris, Amsterdam, and every major city in Western Europe, slums began to fill with unfamiliar Eastern European faces.
...
When a stranger appeared in Newham, several men with bad intentions quickly surrounded him.
But after taking one look at his bulky frame and fierce expression, they decided he was trouble and quietly dispersed.
The man—1.9 meters tall, slightly dark-skinned, with a rugged and intimidating appearance—was carrying a bottle of liquor. He cast only a brief, uninterested glance at the would-be assailants before striding purposefully onward... Just as Conan Doyle described, this land was filled with danger, and he had no intention of falling prey to it.
Ten minutes later, he arrived at a run-down apartment building.
The place had the look of 19th-century architecture, but faded plaster flaked off the walls, exposing a lifeless gray beneath. Several support pillars looked like they could collapse at any moment.
The stranger stopped and gently knocked on the door.
"Come in," came a weak, worn-out voice from inside.
He nudged open the grimy wooden door, revealing a room so cramped it defied belief. An old sofa took up nearly half the room, and the rest was cluttered with empty liquor bottles.
Even without knowing much about alcohol, the intruder could tell these were all cheap, low-grade spirits.
"Who are you?" A middle-aged man with graying hair and a hopeless expression lay sprawled on the couch, draped in a faded dockworker's coat.
The intruder frowned, then handed over the bottle in his hand.
"Vodka!" In an instant, the man who had looked like a worn-out stray dog sprang to life.
He snatched the vodka, bit off the cap, and chugged it like water.
...
"Sergei Ivanovich Pavlov?" the tall intruder asked quietly.
The man, halfway through the bottle, looked up. His eyes sharpened.
"Recruited into the Eastern Intelligence Services in 1976.
The burly man's tone was calm, as if reciting a resume.
"Who are you... Scotland Yard? MI6?" Pavlov growled from the couch, radiating danger like a polar bear ready to strike.
"Don't get the wrong idea," the man smiled. "I came here because of your reputation. My name is Varian Urien."
That doesn't sound like a British name, Pavlov thought warily.
Still, his hostility faded slightly.
"Lord Urien, what brings you here?" Pavlov's English was poor, riddled with grammar errors if one listened closely.
The man pushed an envelope in front of him. Pavlov opened it—and froze.
It was full of fifty-pound notes—nearly fifty of them.
His hand trembled. He desperately needed money—more than anything.
"I can't do anything illegal..." he said, still clinging to some rationality. "Scotland Yard's already watching me. They'd love to throw me in Edinburgh Prison... I'm just a foreigner with no rights, trying to care for my wife and daughter."
"There's nothing illegal. I'm a law-abiding citizen," Urien said seriously. "I just want to ask you a few questions... Do you know Mr. Robert Wilson of Southampton?"
"Mr. Wilson helped smuggle my wife, daughter, and me into the UK a year ago—right at Southampton Harbor."
"He told me you were once an exceptional agent?"
"During my academy days, I topped every subject in my class."
"On deployment in the borderlands, one night in total darkness, you took down six intruders attempting to breach the camp—and were awarded a high-level military commendation."
"Yes, my hearing's excellent. I could locate targets just by sound. That's how I killed those six infiltrators," he said with a bitter smile. "But back home, I had to trade that medal for two loaves of bread."
"Then tell me, can you use this?" Urien tossed a pistol to him. "It's got heavy recoil. Try handling it one-handed."
Before Pavlov could answer, the door suddenly burst open.
A woman from Eastern Europe stepped in.
She wore a low-cut top and a miniskirt that barely reached her waist, with just a cotton coat thrown over her shoulders. Her lips were painted bright red, and her thick makeup couldn't hide the lines at the corners of her eyes.
She must have been beautiful in her youth, but though she looked only thirty-something, her face had aged far beyond her years.
"Sergei... sorry... I didn't know you had company..." she stammered.
She quickly ducked into the inner room of the apartment.
"That's... Sarah... my wife..." Pavlov muttered, lowering his head in shame.
"Just take a look at the gun first," Urien said, intentionally shifting the topic.
...
"No problem," Pavlov replied. "A powerful large-caliber semi-automatic, designed in the mid-80s. Heavy recoil, but I'm strong enough to fire it one-handed without issue... If you need proof, I can test it at a shooting range."
"No need. I believe you." Urien nodded.
"So, what do you need me to do?" the man asked quietly. "Be your bodyguard?"
"No..." the man shook his head. "I just need a bit of your hair."
"Hair?"
"That's right." Urien pulled out another envelope. "Over three thousand pounds. I want to buy your hair—just a small amount."