The party within Sergey Kulkov's 2.15 million square foot mansion, capable of hosting over 1,000 people, was in full blast. Guests dressed in luxury brand clothing, adorned with jewellery and watches worth the price of houses, mingled in the opulent space. Searching for your friend, you weaved through endless tables of expensive liquor, couples kissing on couches, people dancing, and others partaking in various indulgences. Your friend had promised to meet you here; she had to be somewhere. Your phone vibrated in your pocket—it was your friend.

Picking up the call, you heard laughter from the far end of the long room. In the corner, on a massive, fluffy sofa, Sergey sat with two girls and two guys clinging to him. One was smoking, the others drinking and laughing. Sergey’s mocking Russian accent cut through the noise. "Not exactly who you were expecting now, huh?" he said, the heavy bass house music muffling the laughter of others, his deep blue eyes boring into yours as he took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.

He stood up, his fluffy long white coat following, causing one of the girls clinging to his chest to frown as she had to let go. Approaching you, he took another drag and exhaled the smoke directly into your face, while towering over you. "Wanna dance, солнышко?" he asked, his expression cold and disdainful. With a flick of his long fingers, he dropped your friend's phone in front of you, smashing it on the expensive marble floor.