Boston. Arrived!
Stepping off the plane with a duffel bag containing only a few changes of clothes slung over his shoulder, Hunter walked quickly out of the airport and took a deep breath.
Like Los Angeles, Boston was a port city, one of the oldest in the United States. However, while one was on the West Coast, this one sat in the northeast corner of the country.
Hunter had flown across the entire continent to get here. The flight had taken over seven hours. Adding in the wait times, night had already fallen by the time he arrived.
"Sir, do you need a ride?"
A taxi pulled up in front of him. The driver was a middle-aged Black man with a friendly, honest face.
Hunter opened the door and hopped in.
"Chinatown. Find me a hotel there, something with decent accommodations."
"You got it!"
The driver started the car and skillfully headed toward the city.
It seemed that taxi drivers all over the world shared the same trait: they were chatterboxes.
In Los Angeles, Hunter rarely took cabs, so he hadn't noticed. But here in Boston, this driver was incredibly talkative. He rambled on about everything from Hunter's nationality and race to Boston's history and famous tourist spots.
He talked the whole way until they were nearing Chinatown.
Then, the driver glanced at Hunter in the rearview mirror. Suddenly, as if remembering something, his tone shifted, becoming a little less wholesome.
"Sir, I know a famous hotel nearby."
"If you want to experience the tenderness of Boston's ladies, maybe you should consider going there?"
In the back seat, Hunter, wearing sunglasses, paused.
He knew Americans were "simple and open." He had already experienced the "simplicity" of Dom hoarding explosives and Steve wielding automatic rifles.
Even at motels, enthusiastic owners would often ask if he wanted "extra services."
But for a taxi driver to actively solicit for a brothel? That was a new one.
Intrigued, Hunter asked, "Can you tell me more?"
Seeing that his passenger was finally engaging, the driver—who had been displaying his racial talent for rapid-fire speech the whole trip—grinned with a "you're a man of culture" expression.
"Hehe."
"Sir, it's best if you experience it yourself."
"As long as you bring enough cash, I guarantee those Russians will treat you like God."
With that, the driver unzipped a fanny pack and handed a card to Hunter with one hand.
Curious, Hunter took it.
The card was pink. It didn't have much design, but it felt garish.
On the front was a line of Russian text, with an English translation next to it.
"Moscow Nights"
Hunter raised an eyebrow. If there were really Russian girls involved, he wouldn't mind experiencing their "enthusiasm."
He flipped the card over. There was only a phone number.
Curiosity piqued, he pocketed the card.
"Let's go there," Hunter said.
The driver chuckled, turned the wheel at the next intersection, and steered away from Chinatown.
Before long, the car stopped in front of a hotel.
"Moscow Nights, huh?"
The hotel's decor wasn't magnificent. If Hunter had to rate it, it was barely a two or three-star establishment.
But under the cover of night, it was dazzling. Neon lights surrounded the words "Moscow Nights," making it impossible to miss.
After paying the fare, one of the two burly male porters stationed at the entrance walked over.
"Sir, let me take your bag."
"Thanks."
Hunter handed over his light duffel bag.
Guided by the porter, he went to the front desk.
The staff behind the counter were tall, well-dressed women. Hunter couldn't tell if they were Russian, but they looked professional enough.
He booked a room quickly and asked for a tourist map of Boston.
Then, guided by the porter, he took the elevator to his floor.
"Sir, guests aren't allowed to wander around at night."
"I need to make that clear upfront."
"However, if you require any services, you can contact the front desk via the internal phone."
"Okay."
Hunter didn't take the burly porter's reminder—or rather, threat—to heart.
After sending the porter away, he frowned.
The room's soundproofing was excellent; almost no noise from outside could penetrate.
But because of that, extremely subtle sounds inside the room became conspicuous.
"A bug?"
"No... likely a camera."
With physical attributes more than double that of a normal human, Hunter was acutely sensitive to being watched and to ambient noise.
He quickly realized this place was unusual.
Picking up the tourist map, he pretended to read it while walking around the room.
While his eyes seemed focused on the map, his heightened senses were scanning the environment.
He confirmed there were at least three listening devices in the guest room. Furthermore, there were cameras installed in both the bedroom and the bathroom.
Discovering this, a playful expression crossed Hunter's face.
"Are these Russians trying to start something?"
From the moment he entered, he had noticed the bilingual Russian-English signs. The staff also spoke Russian among themselves.
He trusted the taxi driver hadn't lied; this was a Russian-run establishment.
Originally, he thought it was just a slightly shady hotel where he could have some fun.
But now, Hunter felt wary of the Russians behind this operation.
He decided to behave himself tonight to avoid exposing any secrets.
He went to the bathroom and took a quick shower. Afterward, feigning fatigue, he tossed his dirty clothes onto a specific spot in the room—perfectly draping them over the hidden camera facing the bed.
Job done, Hunter turned off the lights and lay down to rest.
But not long after...
Ring!
The room phone suddenly rang.
Hunter frowned slightly. He picked up the receiver and heard a low, husky voice on the other end.
"Sir, the night is lonely. Do you need some company?"
Hunter narrowed his eyes. Instinctively, he glanced toward the corner where he had covered the camera.
He realized he might have walked into a very dangerous place.
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