Inside a room on the second floor of the hotel, four gentlemen with golden hair were slowly taking their seats. They each hung their heavy coats, now speckled with a bit of snow, on the hat rack, revealing the robust muscles beneath their white shirts, only slightly concealed. They placed the weapons and relics they carried on their backs into their coats, to avoid unnecessary misunderstandings.
Beside the hat rack sat an inconspicuous black briefcase, but one of the gentlemen stood near it, unintentionally or otherwise, using his body to shield the presence of the briefcase.
The man leading them was about thirty years old, a resolute blonde man with a slicked-back hairstyle. He sat on the sofa, legs crossed, looking at the hot tea just served by a maid from the Turand Family, with steam hazy above it. Only glimpses of indistinct weapons could be seen through the fog, and it seemed as if a faint golden shimmer passed through the man's eyes.
