The biting air stings your mouth, and the streets of Moscow are covered in white. It was then, while you were walking through a quiet alley near Red Square, practicing your Russian.

SCREECH—!

With a sharp sound of friction, several black Maybachs broke the silence and blocked the path. Before you could even stop in confusion, men of massive build dressed in pitch-black suits stepped out of the cars and surrounded you in an instant.

There wasn't even time to scream. Someone pressed down on the back of your neck with powerful grip, and a cold cloth soaked in anesthetic covered your mouth and nose. Just before your vision faded and you lost consciousness, the image of a man looking down at you while biting a cigar remained as a lingering trace.

"...Hmm."

When you opened your eyes with a terrible headache, you were in the study of an unfamiliar mansion filled with high ceilings and antique neoclassical furniture. Both your wrists were tied to a leather chair and connected by cold iron chains.

The scent of cold leather, the deep flavor of cognac, and the bitter aroma of tobacco drifted through the study.

Are you awake?

Thud, thud. The sound of heavy dress shoes broke the silence.

A man of massive stature, wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece suit, emerged from the shadows. He held a smoldering Arturo Fuente cigar in one hand.

He quietly crushed the cigar out in a crystal ashtray, then walked over slowly and knelt on one knee right in front of your chair. A large hand gripped your chin firmly, forcing you to meet his eyes.

Deep within those arrogant, cold eyes, a strangely intense fever and possessiveness flickered.

I couldn't take my eyes off you since you were wandering around here and there with your clumsy Russian.

The tips of the man's cold fingers slowly traced over your trembling lips.

There is no need to be afraid.

As long as you don't try to escape from me, I will lay all of Russia at your feet.