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As dusk settled over Vienna, like a vast velvet blanket soaked in aged wine, it gently enveloped the golden spires of the opera house and the shimmering waters of the Danube. The air was thick with the aroma of coffee and grilled ribs, mingled with whispers in different languages, imbuing the ancient capital with a vibrant yet tense atmosphere—the Global Energy Summit was about to commence. A black luxury taxi silently pulled up beneath the porch of a Baroque building in the inner city.
The car door opened, and Alexander “Alex” von Holtz (Keegan) stepped out first. He was dressed in a well-tailored dark gray suit, and his demeanor exuded the composure and aloofness of a German aristocrat. He turned slightly to the side and reached his hand into the car.
Dr. Elena “Lena” Weber (Elaine) placed her hand in his palm and gracefully stepped out of the car. She wore a charcoal gray business suit, her hair neatly styled in a bun, and frameless glasses perched on her nose, partially obscuring her eyes, giving her a calm and capable appearance. They were analysts from the Munich-based independent energy consulting firm HolzRhein, invited to attend an academic forum surrounding the summit.
The doorman took her luggage. As she stepped into the hotel lobby, Elaine's gaze swept over the street scene outside the window, and her body paused almost imperceptibly. Vienna. Just a year ago, she was in NY, a crucial stop on her work plan as a high-ranking member of a globally renowned NPO.
At that time, her life trajectory was clear and dazzling: attending summits, delivering speeches, adding a brilliant chapter to her career. However, a sudden blizzard forced her flight to land at Ljubljana Airport, and her fate, like being caught in the blizzard, became uncontrollable. Her identity as NY was "dead," replaced by "Elaine," who walked on the edge of the shadows, and now, the man beside her whose fate was so closely intertwined with hers—Keegan.
A complex, indescribable emotion, like tiny needles, pierced her heart. She became unusually silent.
Their hideout this time wasn't a dark basement, but a luxury penthouse apartment that the Ghost group had been renting long-term under the guise of a shell company. Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the Vienna skyline stretched out before them, breathtakingly beautiful, yet also resembling a vast stage burdened with invisible shackles.
Price was already waiting on the other end of the encrypted line. His voice, coming through a voice changer, was calm and unwavering: "Welcome to Vienna. The stage is set, the actors are all on stage, but the script is full of unknowns. Makarov's 'shadow' may be lurking beneath any halo. Your task is to find him under the spotlight, but without alerting the audience." The briefing was concise, yet the pressure was immense.
The next few hours were filled with intense information synchronization and equipment debugging. Hesh and Logan had infiltrated the perimeter of the conference center as technicians. Ajax, meanwhile, was working as the logistics manager at the adjacent five-star hotel. The Ghost team, like true ghosts, were scattered throughout the city's information network.
When only Keegan and Elaine remained in the room, the last rays of dusk faded, and the city lights began to twinkle. Elaine stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the land she had once dreamed of, but which she had now returned to in a completely different form. Her silhouette, illuminated by the dazzling lights, appeared exceptionally thin and…lonely.
Keegan silently approached her from behind, without speaking immediately. He simply stood there, like a silent mountain, shielding her from the coldness of the room behind her and the clamor of the world outside. He could sense the almost sorrowful tranquility emanating from her, a desolate feeling of things having changed and a sense of being in another world.
After a long silence, Elaine spoke softly, her voice somewhat ethereal: "Here... I should have been wearing different suits, holding different documents, standing in different hotel rooms, thinking about completely different things." She didn't turn around, as if talking to herself.
Keegan reached out, his warm, broad palm gently resting on her slightly cool shoulder. This simple gesture was filled with silent understanding and support.
Elaine slowly turned around, raised her head, and looked into Keegan's deep eyes through a thin layer of mist. There was no pity, no doubt, only a deep, empathetic peace in them.
“Keegan,” she said, dropping all pretense in this absolutely safe space, “after experiencing all of this… ‘death,’ loss, escape, confrontation, and constant confrontation… meeting you is the only thing that makes me feel like fate hasn’t completely abandoned me.” Her voice was soft, yet it sounded incredibly heavy.
After saying that, she did something she had never done before—she slightly tiptoed, tilted her head back, and placed an extremely gentle kiss, full of endless dependence, relief, and affection, on Keegan's lips.
Keegan's body visibly stiffened for a moment, then he returned the kiss, gently and restrainedly. Then, he opened his arms and pulled her tightly, so tightly he seemed to want to meld her into his very bones, never to be separated again. He buried his face deep in her neck, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair, and whispered in her ear in a low, passionate Spanish:
"Eres mi salvación." (You are my salvation.)
This confession, more powerful than any known language, penetrates all pretense and reaches the depths of the soul. He is also telling her that in the endless darkness and carnage, she has become his only light and anchor.
The two embraced tightly in the dazzling Vienna night. Outside the window was the bustling and complex stage of the world, while inside were two wounded yet mutually supportive souls who found a brief moment of peace and the boundless strength to move forward.
After a moment of tenderness, Elaine gently lifted her head from his embrace, the tears in her eyes gone, replaced by a familiar sharpness and determination. "Alright," she took a deep breath, "it's time to get to work. Let's see what kind of show Makarov wants to put on in this music capital."
The Vienna State Opera at night is a Baroque labyrinth constructed of musical notes, lights, and human desires. The enormous crystal chandeliers illuminate the Golden Hall as if it were daytime, and the air is filled with the decadent aroma of perfume, cigars, and expensive alcohol.
As Verdi's Aida triumphal march reached its climax, the roar of the orchestra nearly lifted the dome adorned with angelic murals, yet it also perfectly masked the countless whispers and secret deals from the audience.
Alexander von Holz stood in the shadows near the colonnade, his perfectly tailored black tuxedo blending him seamlessly into the velvet curtain of the backdrop. He held a glass of champagne, untouched, and chatted casually with a portly German energy tycoon about the investment prospects of the North Sea wind farms, his tone relaxed yet carrying the characteristic rigor and detachment of an analyst. However, his eyes carefully scanned the bustling hall. Finally, his gaze lingered on a slender figure leaning against a gilded railing in the distance, past the throng of people.
Dr. Elaine wore a deep sea-blue off-the-shoulder velvet gown, the fabric of which shimmered like a still lake at night. The skirt trailed on the floor, outlining elegant curves. Her hair, usually tightly coiled at the back of her head, was loose, with a few strands falling casually beside her fair neck, softening the sharpness she possessed as a scholar and policy advisor. Her past experiences had endowed her with a calm yet powerful aura, which seemed perfectly natural in Vienna's most prestigious social setting.
Keegan stared at her, momentarily dazed. The Elaine before him was a completely different person—the doctor who had fled desperately on the snowy mountain, the analyst with a furrowed brow in front of the screen in the safe house. A soft spot in his heart was gently touched, but then, an even stronger sense of vigilance poured down like ice water—beneath this ultimate prosperity, a deadly crisis lurked.
The intermission bell rang like a sudden salvation. A deafening roar replaced the music, and the crowd surged into the lounge and bar like a tidal wave. Keegan weaved through the elegantly dressed crowd and walked naturally to Elaine's side, gently encircling her waist with his arm. This gesture was both a public display of intimacy and a solitary refuge in the darkness.
“The target is in the northeast corner, with that prince from Saudi Arabia,” he whispered, his lips almost touching her ear.
Elaine nodded slightly. The small velvet handbag in her hand, seemingly decorative, contained a directional microphone whose aperture was pointed directly in the direction of their target. They moved gracefully among the glittering jewelry, like a couple truly there to enjoy music and socializing, capturing those fleeting words that might change the course of the world, hidden beneath the pleasantries and laughter.
Just as they were about to reach their target area, a slight movement occurred in the crowd to their side. A tall figure turned around without warning, almost colliding head-on with Elaine. Time seemed to freeze at that moment. The man wore an impeccable dark, custom-tailored suit, his hair was perfectly styled, but his face was an almost sickly pale, as if he hadn't seen the sun in a long time. Most unsettling were his eyes—gray pupils, unlike Keegan's sharp blue tones, but pure, like the perpetual fog of the Siberian tundra, empty, cold, and devoid of any human emotional warmth.
Makarov! Elaine recognized the face she had seen countless times on the screen, and felt her heart stop beating, a chill running down her spine to the top of her head. None of her plans had included facing the culprit who had caused such a dramatic change in her life at such close range, in such a way.
Makarov's gaze lingered on Elaine's face for less than a second. It wasn't like looking at a person, but rather scrutinizing an object, carrying a penetrating indifference and condescending cruelty. Fortunately, he clearly didn't connect this radiant, elegant woman with any past "trouble."
In the instant he indifferently averted his gaze, Elaine, with her almost obsessive attention to detail, caught an extremely subtle anomaly: his right hand, hanging at his side and gloved, was trembling uncontrollably. The tremor was extremely slight, yet it carried a neurotic, continuous rhythm, like the aftereffects of some deep nerve damage—perhaps an illness, or perhaps a lingering, incompletely healed old wound silently tormenting him.
In a flash, a flawless, slightly apologetic smile bloomed on Elaine's face, and she softly uttered in clear, gentle German, the same German Keegan had taught her in St. Moritz: "Entschuldigung" (I'm sorry).
The other party didn't respond at all, not even lifting an eyelid, as if she were just an insignificant wisp of air. He led two shadowy attendants straight toward the red-carpeted staircase leading to the VIP rooms on the second floor.
Keegan's arms tightened instantly, almost pulling Elaine into his embrace, using his broad shoulders and back to block all gazes. His eyes were fixed on Makarov's disappearing figure at the top of the stairs, until he was completely out of sight.
“He’s sick,” Elaine said rapidly in a barely audible voice, pressing her forehead gently against Keegan’s chest and using his body as cover, trying to calm her racing heartbeat. “Nerve damage, very serious. But he didn’t recognize me.”
"He went to the private rooms on the east side of the second floor." The brief crisis passed by, but brought unexpected intelligence. They not only confirmed that Makarov had personally gone deep into the tiger's den, but also glimpsed his exhausted health and grasped his current movements.
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