Mr. Nemo makes a sharp left turn and, as he hears the familiar sound of gravel, he knows he is on home soil. Home is perhaps not the appropriate word, because Mr. Nemo knows no such thing. He is, after all, a vagabond without a past, a soul without a sanctuary. His mission is to serve the highest bidder, and as long as he can take pleasure through it, he will complete any mission given to him. Before he steps out of the car, he injects the woman with a strong dose of Propofol that will render her unconscious for at least an hour. This will give him enough time to investigate the document and the film in private and decide what to do with her.

Mr. Nemo carries her inside and lays her on the stainless steel surgical table that stands in the middle of the room. He takes off the handcuffs and instead cuffs her hands to either side of the table. Then he goes to the next room, his room, and starts to shift through the spoils of his mission. The room is used for both work and relaxation. The desk stands next to a window that looks out on the work floor. It was once a foreman’s office, allowing him to keep an eye on the workforce. Now it is used for similar purposes, making sure his victims are kept under close guard.

He first goes through her bag. It is filled to the brink with the useless items women always seem to find a need of: perfume, tampons, a notebook, several pens, keys, lipsticks and other make-up paraphernalia. He throws most of it back in the bag with the exception of the keys and the notebook. He then opens his own bag and takes out the folded flip charts containing the woman’s notes. He studies them carefully and somehow he is pleased to see she has managed to crack the riddle he knows his name has become synonymous with. He feels an almost intimate reverence for the red-head that now lays unconscious in the room next to him. What if they are somehow soul mates? Darkness-obsessed soul mates who have lived their lives in parallel without the knowledge of each other’s existence. He has never been married, and if he had children, they would now be scattered across the world, their mothers victims of his predatory sexual instincts. Perhaps they would one day become reflections of him. Evil breeds evil, he thinks.

But here is a woman that doesn’t appear to be evil, yet she possesses the strong mind and will so few women are gifted with by birth. He closes the curtain as the sight of her renders him weak and feeble. She will have to die. It has to be so. And it would warrant special treatment.

He turns to the document and reads it meticulously. It is all history by now, but for the sake of the people still involved, it would have to disappear. For now he stores it in an underground safe tucked away under the concrete floor. The computer is another story, but as his profession requires a broad knowledge, not least of all in the field of computers, internet technology and security, he has been trained by the best: a hacker going by the name of T0mahawk. He opens the folder for the main harddrive, querying names and keywords associated with the Organisation. It returns only a few documents. Good, she has not made any copies or spread the information. He transfers the files to a USB and then proceeds to drop the files in the waste bin along with the temp files of the same names. Lastly he deletes all the cookies and empties the trash. After this, he makes a clean installation on her Mac. This will take a little while, but he has a lot of time on his hands as he pulls back the curtains to find the woman in the same position he left her in.

Mr. Nemo looks down on Justine. She is sleeping what seems deeply, but any manhandling would easily bring her back to consciousness. He pulls down the chain that is attached to the ceiling. It is strategically placed directly above the surgical table and allows him to hoist up his victim when desired. It is just a matter of securing the handcuffs to the chain through a strong metal fastener, similar to the ones that hold weights to gym machines. It is an easy procedure, especially if the victim is already unconscious and as lightweight as Justine. He hoists her up and secures the chain to the floor. She begins to stir.

“Justine, my dear.  It’s time to wake up.” He wouldn’t usually call his victims by endearing terms, but this one is different. Plus, sometimes it serves a purpose. Sometimes he needs to gain their trust and maybe even their support. There had been times he’s kept his victims hostage for months, and true to profiles of renowned psychologists, his victims start to identify themselves with him. Creating a bond that, to their blissful unawareness, is one-sided. From the psychology books he’s read, he knew this phenomena intimately well as the Stockholm syndrome. He also knows his own personality to be classified as that of a psychopath, and given his crimes he would undoubtedly be described by many as a sexual predator too. Such descriptions never bother him. Instead they make him feel proud. He is one of the lucky few that will live life without remorse. Unlike most of his fellow humans, he won’t have to worry about if he has made any mistakes, if he creates enemies by his words or actions. But what is most remarkable perhaps, the thing that puts him in the category of Super-humans, is his lack of fear. Because this is one emotion he has truly never felt. It is both the antidote and cure to death. Because as his fellow humans wither away as fear takes hold of them, he never has to change his course in response to borders and obstacles determined by others. This makes him unique, and whenever his crimes are mentioned in the media, or sometimes in mere whispers by those he works for, he basks in the glory his name has created. Because, truly, if there are gods, he is one. It also adds another personally disorder to his Übermensch mind: that of a narcissist. Somehow he likes this definition the most. But this is purely for aesthetic reasons as it is the most beautiful of them all.

Justine groans as he slapped her about a few times. Her head is lolling from side to side.

“Look at me, Justine. Can you see me?” Her eyes try to focus but her head keeps dropping. He takes it in his hands and her pupils fix on him – if only for a brief moment.

“I haven’t figured out what I am going to do with you. But unlike the people I’ve dealt with earlier, I think I like you too much to let you die. But of course this all depends on you Justine.” He walks away and draws the curtain, exposing the wall where a variety of knifes, saws, axes and swords hang. “It all depends on you,” he repeats softly to himself.