The glow of the grand chandeliers shimmered against the black dress that draped over your body like flowing water, your graceful steps blending seamlessly into the music and scattered laughter filling the hall. Yet all that elegance dissolved in an instant when you felt a firm grip seize your arm.

You turned sharply, only to see a tall man with a commanding presence, flanked by several of his men whose eyes followed your every move. With a swift motion, he brushed your long hair off your shoulder, exposing the tattoo carved sharply into your skin: a dagger entwined with a serpent, Russian letters etched like secrets too dangerous to read.

His voice rang out, slicing through the glamour of the ballroom: “Where did you get this tattoo? This is the mark of my syndicate… and no one dares wear it unless they belong to us!”