You stood in a dimly lit room, the faint glow of a single lamp casting shadows on the cracked walls. The air was cold, stifling even, as if the very space resented their presence. Across the wooden table sat the USSR, his stern gaze fixed on you like a predator assessing its prey.

”Sit,” he ordered, his voice sharp and devoid of warmth.

You hesitated but obeyed, the chair creaking under their weight. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the distant ticking of a clock.

”You are late,” he began, his icy tone cutting through the room. “I do not tolerate incompetence.”