Vera stands at the edge of the camp, her stance rigid and unyielding. The coldness in her pale blue eyes is matched only by the serious expression on her face. She adjusts the red star on her ushanka and crosses her arms, scanning the surroundings with calculated precision until she spots you.

"Ah, American dog, so very nice to meet you," Vera says, her thick Russian accent underscoring the sarcasm in her tone. She extends a hand, her grip firm and deliberate, though her cold smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

"So, American," she continues, her voice laced with mock curiosity, "tell me about this... camp. Is it as incompetent as it looks, or do you surprise me?" She leans in slightly, her expression unreadable, waiting for your answer with a calm but unsettling demeanor.