COLD

Chapter 11

The SUV cut through the whiteout like a heavy blade. Stephan drove in a silence so absolute it felt heavy, the stolen dossier from Rheinhard resting on the passenger seat like a physical accusation. Outside, Whalsburger’s pristine streets gradually materialized from the blinding blizzard—endless rows of uniform white streetlights, identical black winter coats, and an oppressive, ordered perfection.

He parked outside Xander’s residence. For a long moment, he simply sat there, leaving the engine to idle. His slate-grey eyes scanned the snow-swept compound with clinical precision. No movement. No threats. There was only the endless, indifferent fall of snow.

When he finally stepped out, his breath misted instantly in the freezing air. He walked toward the house with measured steps, the furnace in his chest burning low and steady. It was not yet rage, but a quiet, unrelenting heat that refused to be extinguished.

Inside, the cabin was dim and deceptively warm. Stephan scanned the space, his movements sharp and deliberate. He found Xander standing exactly where he expected: by the large picture window in the sitting room, hands clasped tightly behind his back, watching the white veil descend upon the valley.

Xander sensed him immediately. “Stephan,” he greeted calmly, without turning around. “How did the job conclude?”

“It concluded,” Stephan replied, his voice entirely flat. He came to a halt a few paces behind the older man. “The girl is back with her father. Payment has been received.”

Xander nodded once, his gaze still fixed on the storm. “Good. Then the matter is closed.”

Stephan’s jaw tightened. “Is it?” He took a slow, predatory step closer. “Did you inform Rheinhard about our conversation last night?”

Xander turned slowly, his pale face an unreadable mask of composure, though his brow furrowed slightly. “Why would you ask about Hildegard’s mother?”

Stephan’s lips curved into a dangerous, minimal smirk. A cold, sickening realization finally settled over him. “Because you knew. You knew everything, and you chose to keep me blind.”

Xander studied him for a long, heavy moment. “It was for the best, Stephan. Some truths are better left buried. For your sake. For hers.”

Stephan’s grey eyes remained entirely unreadable. “For her sake,” he echoed, his voice dropping an octave. “How strange it must be, staring at a daughter who wears the exact same face as her dead mother. How convenient for you all that Arkhangel exists as the perfect, emotionless mirror.”

Xander exhaled slowly, a heavy weight pulling at his shoulders. “It was necessary to keep Hildegard safe. The patriarchs do not tolerate deviations. Questions lead to complications, and complications lead to graves.”

A suffocating silence stretched between them. Stephan’s breath crept out in a visible mist, defying the warmth of the room. The furnace inside him burned hotter now—not chaotic or wild, but focused. It was a cold anger, entirely tempered by sudden clarity.

“I see,” Stephan said finally, his tone dangerously even. “Then asking for guidance from you has become riskier than digging up the truth myself.”

Xander’s expression tightened, marking the very first crack in his flawless composure. “Stephan—”

But Stephan had already turned on his heel. He walked out without another word, the heavy oak door closing behind him with a quiet, final click.

Climbing back into the SUV, he slammed the vehicle into gear. The tires threw up a spray of ice as he disappeared down the snow-covered road, heading straight for the lion's den: Rheinhard Linchsteyn’s private estate.

Left alone by the window, Xander let out a deep, weary sigh. He pressed a trembling hand against the cold glass as the taillights vanished into the whiteout. The son he had pulled from the mud—the one he had tried to shield and guide toward a better path—was now walking directly into the heart of the patriarchs’ domain. And the storm outside continued its indifferent descent.

------------------------------

Linchsteyn's Residence, Whalsburger

12:34 PM

The morning sun remained thoroughly buried beneath a ceiling of heavy grey winter clouds. A endless spectrum of pristine, freshly fallen flakes drifted lazily across the estate grounds, blurring the lines between the grand architecture and the frozen earth.

Stephan roared into the courtyard. Stepping out of the SUV, he marched up the grand stone stairs, throwing open the heavy double doors of the mansion. The massive hallway greeted him with an intoxicating, clandestine atmosphere of old money and absolute authority. He strode across the polished marble floor, his movements unrestrained, each step echoing with an undeniable prestige.

At the end of the hall, the door to the primary study stood half-open. Stephan stepped inside, his movements slowing to a cautious, deliberate glide.

There, standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass, was Rheinhard Linchsteyn. His arms were clasped behind his back, his eyes locked onto the falling snow with a look of cold admiration.

“What brings you to my abode, Hellinghammer?” Rheinhard asked. He had sensed the intrusion immediately, though his back remained turned to the room.

Stephan paused, but his cold composure never wavered. “I need to know why my contract was abruptly terminated,” he muttered, his voice dangerously low. “Especially after it was reported that I was asking questions about Hildegard's past.”

Rheinhard let out a sharp, dangerously cold smirk. “I don't believe that is any of your business.”

“You have a point,” Stephan shot back sharply, without a shred of hesitation. “It was never my business. Not when I was hired to surveil a young woman with absolutely no documentable past. Not when she was locked in a subterranean facility fifteen minutes away from Elskandrovsk. It wasn't my business then, Linchsteyn. It is now.”

Rheinhard turned slowly to face him. His crystalline, light-blue eyes bored into Stephan's face, completely void of human warmth. “It wasn't your business?” he mocked, his voice dripping with condescension. “Yet here you are, standing in my study, demanding to know a history that does not concern you.”

“A history that was systematically erased,” Stephan corrected, stepping closer. “Instead of answering me, you sent a squad of boys to scare me off. What did you think I would do? Run away like a lemming over a cliff?”

Rheinhard’s smirk widened into something predatory. “I see,” he murmured, his tone shifting into something deeply menacing.

He walked away from the window, his eyes narrowing to slits as he evaluated the assassin standing before him. His movements were fluid, his breathing perfectly controlled. “Tell me something, Hellinghammer,” he commanded, his voice gentle yet carrying the absolute weight of authority. “Why is she suddenly your concern? By all accounts, you don't care about anyone. You never have.”

The words struck a chord, forcing Stephan to look inward. It was true. He had never cared for a single target or client he had ever been contracted to protect or eliminate. His past clients, while thoroughly satisfied with his lethal efficiency, always complained about his icy, detached demeanor. But something had changed. The ice was thawing, and he was becoming dangerously protective of a woman he barely knew.

“You're right,” Stephan conceded, his deep voice resonant and steady. “She was never my business. I didn't care about her. But her innocence bought my concern.”

“Innocence?” Rheinhard chuckled darkly. “You truly think she is innocent?”

“I don't just think it, I've seen it,” Stephan growled, closing the distance to the heavy mahogany desk. His eyes burned with a dangerous, lethal intensity. “I saw a will to find warmth in a world as cold as ice. So now, I am asking you plainly: why was she locked away in a black-site facility deep in the northern wastes?” His right hand clenched into a rock-solid fist, the leather of his glove straining.

Rheinhard looked down at the clenched fist, his smirk turning thoroughly sadistic. “If you want to know the truth so badly, Hellinghammer, I will tell you. But it is a answer you should be demanding from Xander.”

Stephan frowned, his momentum faltering slightly. “What are you talking about?”

Rheinhard leaned forward, his crystalline eyes completely empty of mercy. “Xander gave you a name. He gave you a history. And he gave you the face of someone else.” He let out a low, mocking laugh. “Look in the mirror, boy. You are nothing but an impostor wearing a dead man's face.”

The words hit Stephan like a physical blow. The world around him seemed to tilt, fracturing into an apocalyptic labyrinth of sudden, terrifying questions. The burning urge to protect Hildegard suddenly faded into the background, eclipsed by a blinding wave of existential dread. His identity, his past, his entire existence was a lie. Who was the original owner of his face? And who, beneath the mask, was he?