In the dead of night, a storm gathered above the city of Stockholm, blanketing its streets with a torrent of snow and ice. It was in these white streets that a middle-aged man with a blood-soaked tunic ran through an alleyway while pressing one hand to his open wound. Yet it was not enough to stop the bleeding, and thus a sanguine trail followed behind him, marking his every move.
Despite the wound in his gut, he did not stop for a single second of rest, for the sound of snow crunching beneath a man's boots echoed throughout the alley, closing in on him with each passing second. Like a bat out of hell, the man ran for the nearest safe house.
Upon turning the corner, the man found his destination. At the end of the alleyway was a small building whose door he frantically knocked upon, calling out to whoever was on the other side.
"Olaf, open the fucking door. It's me Anders. Hurry, someone's after me!"
