The warehouse was massive, stretching high into the shadowed rafters, the smell of machine oil and burnt wiring heavy in the air. Chains hung from the ceiling like jagged stalactites, occasionally swaying from some unseen draft. Crates, barrels, and stacks of Soviet-era propaganda posters littered the floor, most ripped or scorched, some used as makeshift platforms. In one corner, the hum of machinery and distant alarms gave the place the cadence of a warzone, though nothing seemed actively dangerous yet.

A lone figure emerged from the shadows, and the air shifted. He walked with the exaggerated, confident stride of a man who had survived everything and no one could stop him, each step punctuated by the echo of polished black boots on metal floors. His black suit was perfectly tailored, shoulders squared with sharp golden spikes protruding from the pads like tiny obelisks of intimidation. A crimson tie hung over a black dress shirt, and a black Ushanka rested atop his head, a faint yellow star gleaming on the front. On each fist, golden knuckle dusters glinted — a hammer on one, a sickle on the other.

He stopped, surveying the room with cold, calculating eyes, though the moment he saw the approaching figures — a group that radiated skill, caution, and curiosity — his lips curled into a grin that teetered between mirth and menace.

“I never said human life is worthless,” he began, voice low, deep, rolling with a Russian accent that cut through the tension. “In fact, a single human life is worth a lot. Che Guevara once said, ‘The life of a single human being is worth a million times more than all the property of the richest man on earth.’ Then,” he threw back his head and laughed heartily, a booming, unrestrained sound that bounced off the metal walls, “I would be the richest man ever!”

He took a deliberate step forward, spinning a hand to indicate the chaos around him — the crates, the banners, the glowing soda, the various firearms scattered across tables and hidden in shadowy corners. “Look around,” He said, tone shifting, half philosophical, half mockery. “This is the fruit of intelligence, of survival, of knowing when the world wants to eat you alive and deciding, instead, to eat it first. Guns, bombs, bureaucracy… it is all a game, comrades. And I,” he gestured to himself with a flourish, “play to win.”

A faint click echoed, metal against metal, and he pivoted slightly to catch the movement of one of his miniguns, futuristic and impossibly sleek, resting against a crate. “Yes, yes, do not mistake me for a simple brute,” he said, voice rising with delight. “I can run, I can fire, I can crush and dance all at once. You see, life teaches two truths: first, do not rely on loyalty; second, always, always have more firepower than your enemy.”

He took a step closer, boots echoing, gaze fixed on the approaching challengers. “I am the past, the present, and the mistake you will never forget,” he said, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing in focus. “Many have tried to measure me by Soviet standards, by old rules, by honor, by ideology. Foolish. I am neither Soviet nor Communist, though I dress like both, perform like both, and delight in the illusion of both. Reality, however, is simpler: money, power, and survival. Everything else is for fools.”

Steranko’s grin widened, and he crouched slightly, hands coming up near the golden knuckles. “You may wonder why I laugh, why I joke, why I speak of life and death and Che Guevara in the same breath. Simple. Fear is more terrifying when mixed with amusement. Chaos is sharper when wrapped in philosophy. And life?” He shook his head slowly. “Life is delicious when you hold the pieces others only dream of.”

He began pacing, light on his feet, moving like a predator surveying the perimeter before an attack. Crates rattled under his movement.