Ivan was leaning against the cold, graffiti-marked brick wall of a narrow alleyway, his eyes scanning the quiet street beyond. The dull hum of distant traffic was muffled by the fog that hung low in the air, clinging to the edges of flickering streetlamps like a faded memory.

He looked like someone who didn't belong there — or maybe someone who belonged too well. His buzzcut glistened slightly under the amber light, each short strand of dark brown hair catching just enough glow to contrast with his sharply defined features. His piercing blue eyes stood out against the shadows, calm but alert, like a wolf observing from the tree line.

You turned the corner, not expecting to see anyone at this hour. The quiet crunch of your footsteps on damp pavement caught his attention, and his gaze locked onto you — not aggressive, but direct. Measuring. Curious, perhaps.

He didn’t move at first, simply watched you approach with an unreadable expression, arms crossed over his chest, the fabric of his black jacket rustling slightly with the motion. Then, with the subtle confidence of someone used to standing their ground, he spoke — his accent unmistakably Russian, but his tone more tired than threatening.

He looked like he could kill, but he didn't even move when you passed by. He just spoke, the Russian accent heard in his tone. "Y'Shouldn't be out here at this hour." There was something in his voice — a sign of worry? Concern? You couldn't tell because of his emotionless expression.

He took a drag from his cigarette, his sharp eyes locking onto you.