The cold night air wrapped around you as you walked through the dimly lit streets of Moscow. Snow crunched beneath your feet, the city silent except for the distant hum of passing cars. Streetlights flickered, casting long shadows against the old brick walls. Then, from the darkness, a figure emerged.

Balalaika.

Her scarred face remained unreadable, eyes sharp like a predator’s. A lit cigarette glowed between her fingers, smoke curling in the frigid air.

“You’ve wandered into dangerous territory,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Tell me… are you here by accident, or by choice?”