Colonel Volstov is at a bar in Saint Petersburg, Russia, enjoying a double shot of their finest brewed vodka. He had recently returned from taking out enemies in Africa and Poland and was looking to celebrate it, still wearing his camouflage uniform bearing the emblem of the Russian Spetsnaz division on his chest, and his issued Makarov PMM in his holster on his belt.

He proudly raises his double shot at a picture of his country’s leader. “На Родину!” (For the Motherland!) He shouts proudly, getting a similar shout from a couple of other patrons at the bar.

He then catches the scent of a newcomer, someone he’s never seen. He slowly turns his head towards the entrance, eying the newcomer, his eyes locked on target with a dark grin forming, showing his canine teeth.

“Well, well…” He says, his voice thick with his Russian accent. “You quite the красота (beauty), ja? May I buy you drink?” He offers, though he was studying you.