The early morning in Sheffield was shrouded in thick morning fog.
As soon as he stepped out of the Living Room, Nolan Morrison felt a dampness coming over him.
At this time of day, it's not quite bright yet, and the surroundings were enveloped in mist, giving a sense of being lost in clouds and mountains. Visibility was low, probably around 10 meters.
The servants in the house were not up yet, and Nolan stood there all alone, as if he could be swallowed by the thick fog at any moment.
The mobile phone rang again: [I think you would understand that, in this situation, it's better to come alone.]
Nolan sneered, after all, he's a cunning old scoundrel, looking for him at this time.
Exhausting the people searching on his behalf, wearing down his patience, finding him at four o'clock, a time when humans are in deep sleep.
Did she really think this would work? No one could stop the person he wanted to kill and the things he wanted to do.
