Two Days Later – Stockholm, Sweden
The hotel stood out even in one of Stockholm's wealthiest districts, which was saying somethiing. Classic architecture with modern touches, all glass and gleaming marble, the kind of place where a single night's stay could cost more than most people made in a month. The type of establishment where billionaires stayed when they wanted to keep a low profile, and politicians met when they really didn't want anyone knowing about it.
In other words: exclusive as hell.
A black car pulled up to the pristine marble driveway, engine purring softly before going silent.
The door opened with a heavy thud.
A man stepped out.
Head to toe in black. Black suit, black gloves, black boots that clicked softly against the marble with each step. A cap pulled low over his face, sunglasses so dark you couldn't even see his eyes. Everything about him screamed "don't look at me"—which, ironically, made him impossible not to notice.
He carried a sleek black suitcase in one hand, gripping it like it contained something either very valuable or very dangerous. Maybe both.
This was Thomas Willson. Though right now, he didn't exactly feel like himself.
The hotel lobby was enormous—all polished marble floors and hushed conversations, the kind of place where even the air felt expensive. Behind the reception desk stood two young women, both impossibly beautiful in that professional, untouchable way. They greeted passing guests with practiced smiles and melodic Swedish-accented English.
But when Thomas walked past them, something changed.
Their smiles faltered. Just for a second.
Still, being professionals at one of Stockholm's most discreet luxury hotels, neither of them so much as blinked. They'd been trained for this. Some guests existed in a different world—one where the normal rules didn't quite apply. Where questions weren't asked and discretion was worth more than gold.
One of the receptionists stepped forward smoothly, her composure completely recovered. "Good afternoon, sir. May I help you? Do you have a reservation?"
Thomas gave a single, curt nod. "Yes." His voice was low. Gravelly. Tired.
"Could you please provide the name for your booking?" She positioned her fingers over the sleek keyboard, ready to type.
"Black Swan."
Something flickered in her eyes. It wasn't a normal reservation name—this was one of those bookings. The kind that came with... special arrangements.
"And your verification code, sir?"
"1322."
She didn't hesitate. Reaching beneath the desk with practiced ease, she produced two brass keys, each marked with a room number. "Rooms 13 and 22. Here you are, sir." She offered them with a subtle nod.
Thomas took the keys without a word, the cold metal pressing against his gloved fingers, and headed straight for the hallway.
He didn't look up at the massive golden chandelier hanging overhead. Didn't glance at the expensive abstract art lining the walls. Didn't acknowledge any of the luxury surrounding him.
He just walked, steady and purposeful, until he reached Room 13.
He didn't knock.
The key turned in the lock with a soft click. The door swung open.
The room was already occupied.
Ambient lighting cast everything in a soft, warm glow. The faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air.
A man sat at a small round table by the window, a delicate porcelain cup held between gloved fingers. Steam rose lazily from the dark liquid. He was backlit by the afternoon light filtering through the curtains, his face mostly in shadow, his features indistinct.
He looked up as Thomas entered—not surprised.
With a casual flick of his wrist, he gestured to the empty chair across from him.
"Please, take a seat." His voice was smooth. Calm and in control. "It's not often I meet clients face to face, you understand. I do hope you make this worth my time."
Thomas didn't acknowledge the gesture.
Instead, he stepped forward—heavy boots silent on the plush carpet—and dropped the black suitcase onto the table with a resounding THUD.
SNAP.
The latches popped open.
Inside: bundles upon bundles of crisp hundred-dollar bills, all neatly stacked and secured with official government bank bands. A small fortune, just sitting there in the open.
"Five hundred thousand," Thomas said flatly, his voice thick with exhaustion. "As an advance. You get the rest when the job's done."
The man across from him—known in certain circles only as Mr. L—didn't even glance at the money. His gaze stayed fixed on his coffee, which he continued stirring with a small silver spoon. Almost like the cash was the least interesting thing in the room.
"I did my research," Mr. L said calmly, still not looking up. "That incident in New York... that was no small matter. And if you're asking me to do what I think you're asking me to do..."
He leaned back in his chair, the shadows deepening around him, making his expression even harder to read.
"10 million won't cut it. You're asking me to pick a fight with a monster."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Thomas started laughing.
It wasn't a happy laugh. Not even close. It was laced with thick mockery.
Mr. L's eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his shadowed face. "What exactly do you find so amusing? Are you mocking me?"
Thomas shook his head, still chuckling—a harsh, grating sound. "No, no. I'm just wondering what the hell you think you're gonna do with more money. Buy a nuke? Launch a missile strike?"
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to something cold and deadly serious.
"Let me tell you something. The U.S. military—with all its firepower, all its resources, all its billion-dollar weapons—couldn't kill that thing. So don't kid yourself into thinking you can."
Mr. L's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.
Thomas continued, his voice turning into a cold whisper. "You don't have to fight the monster. Hell, you wouldn't survive five seconds if you tried. Your job is simple."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a thin brown folder, sliding it across the polished table until it came to rest beside the untouched money.
"Kill the man before he becomes the monster."
Mr. L finally—finally—looked away from his coffee. His gaze shifted to the folder, interest sparking in his eyes.
"Everything you need is in there," Thomas said, standing up. His tall frame cast a long shadow over the table. "Name. Photos. Last known location. Daily routines. Behavioral patterns. All of it."
He turned toward the door, moving with the same purposeful stride he'd entered with.
"You'll get the rest of your payment when it's done," he added over his shoulder, his voice dropping even lower. "If you're too scared to do it, just say so now. There are plenty of others who'd gladly take your place."
He didn't wait for a response.
Thomas reached the door, pulled it open in one smooth motion, and paused—just for a second—with his hand still on the doorknob.
"Good luck on the mission," he said flatly, without looking back.
Then he stepped out into the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final snap.
Inside the room, Mr. L sat in silence for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he set down his coffee cup and reached for the folder.
He flipped it open.
The first thing he saw was a photograph—a man with dark hair and tired eyes, wearing a simple shirt. He looked... ordinary. Harmless, even. Like someone you'd pass on the street without a second glance.
Below the photo: a name.
Dr. Bruce Banner.
Mr. L's lips curved into a thin smile.
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