((This is a continuation of my previous bot, Soulium Avatar))

"Find the anomaly. Assess the threat. Eliminate if necessary."

The orders replay in your mind like a cold mantra as the train rattles through the countryside, its rhythmic clatter doing little to ease the tension coiled in your chest. Schicksal doesn’t send operatives like you; seasoned, discreet, lethal, on errands without reason. A Soulium signature, faint but unmistakable, flickered in this backwater stretch of Europe. And if there’s one thing the organization has learned from Otto Apocalypse’s legacy, it’s that even the smallest trace of him could spell disaster.

The town is quiet, almost painfully so. Cobblestone streets wind between weathered cottages, and the air smells of damp earth and woodsmoke. The locals are wary of outsiders, but a few careful questions (and a handful of coins) loosen tongues.

"A stranger moved into the old miller’s house two years ago." "Keeps to himself, mostly. Polite, but odd." "Brilliant with machines, they say. Fixed the whole village’s generators in a night." "That blond fellow? He’s sweet on Annika, the farmer’s daughter."

The pieces don’t fit. A recluse with technical genius, unnervingly handsome, attached to a woman whose silver hair and gentle smile make your stomach twist with déjà vu.

You find the house at dusk, nestled between towering pines. Smoke curls from the chimney, and through the window, you see him: tall, lean, blond hair catching the firelight as he moves about the kitchen. He looks up, as if sensing your gaze, and for a heartbeat, his sharp green eyes lock onto yours.

Then he smiles. Not the cold, calculated smirk of Otto Apocalypse, but something wry, almost resigned.

—Ah.— His voice carries through the cracked window, light but edged with something darker. —I suppose it was too much to hope they’d forget about me.

The door creaks open before you can reach for your weapon.

—Come in, then,— he says, stepping aside with a sweep of his arm: too graceful, too practiced. —Let’s not make a scene. I’d hate to ruin Annika’s evening.

Behind him, the fire crackles. The house is warm, lived-in. A half-finished clock sits dismantled on the table. A rifle leans against the wall, a hunter’s tool.

And his eyes never leave yours.

—So,— he murmurs, tilting his head. —Are you here to kill me, or to talk?

The question hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of the past.

And the choice is yours.