Karl's body reacted faster than his brain—his shoulders began to turn, his right foot started to retreat, and his mouth opened, ready to shout sothing.
But none of those actions were completed.
A hand covered his mouth from behind.
The force was astonishingly great, gripping his jaw like iron pincers, completely stifling the sound he was trying to make.
Then ca the knife.
The blade sliced in from the right, precisely tracing across his neck.
No hesitation, no superfluous movent, just like a butcher slicing a familiar piece of at.
The first thing Karl felt was warmth.
A warm liquid surged out from the right side of his neck, flowing down his collarbone and soaking into the collar of his shirt.
Then ca the pain.
A dull, diffuse burning sensation, as if soone had poured a pot of scalding hot water over his neck.
A muffled gurgle escaped his throat—he wanted to speak, but his vocal cords no longer obeyed; only bubbles erged from the wound, emitting a faint hissing sound.
His legs went weak.
His body was losing strength at an irreversible speed.
The blood pouring from the wound was flowing out much faster than he had imagined—he could feel it trickling down his skin, warm, and then rapidly cooling as the cold air of the late month stole its last bit of temperature.
The hand covering his mouth loosened.
There was no need to cover it anymore.
Karl's knees struck the gravel ground with a dull thud.
His body pitched forward, his hands instinctively bracing against the ground, but his fingers were already starting to go numb, strength draining away from his fingertips bit by bit.
His vision was darkening.
It spread slowly from the edges, like ink soaking into paper.
The walls on both sides of the alley blurred, and the strip of gray sky overhead turned into an increasingly thin band of light.
His right hand was still pressed against the inside of his coat.
His fingertips were still touching the edge of the manila folder.
In the final mont,
He thought «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» of Sophie.
And a very simple, very foolish thought—
Her cake...
The caral hazelnut mille-crêpe made by Hanna, the one from today.
He hadn't managed to buy it...
Karl Winter's body slowly collapsed onto the gravel.
His glasses slipped from the bridge of his nose, one lens hitting the stone and cracking with a fine line.
Blood gathered from beneath his neck into a small, dark puddle, emitting faint steam in the cold air.
Snowflakes were still falling.
Fine and unhurried, they landed on his hair, on his coat, and into the expanding pool of blood.
They lted upon landing.
The alley fell silent again.
So quiet as if nothing had happened.
A mont later, the so-called 'beggar' also stood up.
His movents were fluid and steady, completely different from when he was curled up in the corner just monts before.
The body beneath the tattered overcoat stretched out; his shoulders were broad, his back straight, and every movent possessed a precision and restraint only gained through long training.
He lifted the brim of his hat with his left hand.
Beneath the beret, a young face was revealed.
Twenty years old.
His features were sharply defined, cheekbones high, and the jawline looked as if carved by a knife.
His dark eyes barely showed the boundary between the pupil and the iris in the dim light, like two bottomless wells.
Igor Petrov.
He glanced down at the corpse on the ground, his expression devoid of any fluctuation.
Like a man who had completed his daily work.
He carefully wiped the bloodstains from the dagger with the cuff of his ragged overcoat and slid the blade back to his waist.
He stood up and snapped his fingers softly toward the depths of the alley.
Shadows moved.
In the darkness at the end of the alley, several figures erged silently.
The first to appear was Natasha Petrova.
She wore a dark hooded jacket, the hood pulled down low, revealing only the lower half of her face.
Her reddish-brown short hair was tucked into the hood, and her blue eyes appeared exceptionally bright in the shadows.
Her gaze swept over the corpse on the ground, her lips pressed together, but she said nothing.
Behind her followed two other people—both young n, dressed in similar dark clothing, their faces mostly obscured by the brim of their hats and scarves.
Their steps were light and fast, making almost no sound when their feet touched the ground.
Natasha walked up to Igor, moved her gaze away from the corpse, and looked at her brother.
"What's next?"
Her voice was soft, but steady.
Igor did not answer imdiately.
He squatted down and began to examine the body.
His movents were skilled and swift—first flipping open the overcoat, checking the inner pockets, then the trousers pockets, boot shafts, and belt.
"Stick to the original plan."
His voice was equally soft, carrying an unquestionable calmness.
"Stage the scene, clean up everything on him that could point to us. Rember the angle and depth of the cut—single-edged, wielded by the right hand, attacking from behind, the incision running from right to left. This is a technique commonly used by military personnel."
He stood up, his gaze sweeping over his two subordinates.
"Don't clean up all the bloodstains; leave so, but make it look like soone tried to clean it but failed to do so completely. Erase our footprints and stomp a few around with the prepared military boots."
He paused.
"Fra the General Staff Departnt, making the scene look like they sent soone to silence him—the perpetrator was professional, but the cleanup was flawed, leaving behind traces that shouldn't have been left."
The two subordinates nodded and imdiately squatted down to begin work.
One person took out a pair of military boots from his bag—standard Imperial Army issue, the sole pattern and degree of wear intentionally handled.
Another person took out a dark cloth and began selectively wiping away traces on the ground.
Natasha stood to the side, her gaze fixed on Karl's face.
That delicate, bespectacled face.
One lens of the glasses was cracked.
She shifted her gaze away.
"Boss."
The voice of one subordinate ca from beside the corpse.
"There's sothing on him."
Igor turned his head.
The subordinate was pulling a manila folder out of the inner pocket of Karl's overcoat.
The mouth of the bag was originally tied with thin string, but during the struggle—or rather, during the process of the body falling—the knot loosened, revealing the edge of a stack of papers inside.
"A docunt bag."
The subordinate handed it to Igor.
"It's quite thick. How should we handle it?"
Igor took the file bag and weighed it in his hand.
He pulled out the docunts inside and quickly flipped through a few pages in the dim light.
His brow furrowed slightly.
"Is it valuable?" Natasha asked.
Igor did not answer imdiately.
He flipped a few more pages, his gaze lingering on a line of text for a mont, then stuffed the docunts back into the file bag.
"Can't tell."
He said, "The light is too dim, and there's too much content; I can't judge it on the spot."
He handed the file bag to Natasha.
"Keep it for now and look at it when we get back. If it has no value, burn it along with the clothes stained with our blood."
The corner of his mouth curved slightly, a very small movent, not quite a smile.
"Give the Security Bureau a little more trouble."
Two minutes later, the scene was processed.
"Split into three groups and et at the old location," Igor ordered.
Natasha and the subordinates quickly vanished into the darkness at the end of the alley.
Igor was the last to leave.
He did not rush to depart but re-surveyed the scene.
He bent down, picked up the copper coin bearing the Emperor's head from the ground, and placed it on Karl's chest.
He carefully checked every footprint, ensuring the marks from the military boots were 'obvious' enough but didn't look deliberate.
The snowstorm was getting heavier, gradually covering the edges of all the sins.
After confirming there were no loopholes that could point to them, Igor pulled down his hat brim and prepared to turn and lt into the darkness.
However, the mont he took his first step, a voice rang out without warning in the deathly silent alley.
"Are you planning to just leave like that?"
The voice was level and calm, carrying a hint of almost imperceptible resignation, and it used so technique to deliberately blur the timbre.
Yet, it sounded like a thunderclap, freezing Igor's steps.
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