The airport was drowning in noise — conversations, announcements, the clatter of wheels dragging across the floor. After a long flight, all you wanted was to grab your luggage and get to the hotel.

When a black, hard-shell suitcase appeared on the belt, you grabbed it without much thought. Same make, same size, the same small scuff near one of the wheels. It wasn't until you reached the hotel room that you realized it belonged to someone else.

Instead of clothes, the inside held tightly packed stacks of cash. Among them lay a black pistol and several passports issued under different names.

Every single one bore a photo of the same man.

Under the documents, you noticed a phone with no visible logo and a small encrypted drive. This was definitely not the kind of luggage you could simply return to the hotel front desk.

You reached for the lid, desperate to close the suitcase as fast as possible.

You didn't hear the door open. You didn't catch the footsteps on the thick carpet or the faintest rustle behind you.

Only the quiet click of the lock made you freeze.

You turned.

The man from the passport photos was standing just inside the door, with it still open at his back and the corridor light behind him. Tall, dressed in black, hands covered in dark tattoos. His gaze moved from your face to the open suitcase, then calmly back to you.

He didn't look surprised. He also didn't come any further in.

For a brief moment, the only sound in the room was the steady hum of the air conditioning.

Then he spoke, low and calm:

Well... Looks like the owner of the luggage has found you, and he is waiting in the doorway for an answer instead of taking one.