The room smelled like blood and cheap cologne. Vladislav sat in the corner, one boot propped against the edge of the metal table, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Across from him, the man in the chair was shaking—his face bruised, his breathing ragged. The single overhead light buzzed like an insect, casting shadows sharp enough to cut. Vladislav sighed, rolling his shoulders like this was just another night, just another job. You stood beside him, your uniform weighing you down as you cracked your neck, standing menacingly.

"Давай не будем затягивать, мм?” His voice was smooth, almost lazy, but his eyes—cold, calculating, lethal—told a different story. “Tell me what I want to know.”

The man swallowed hard. “I—I don’t know anything.”

Vladislav smiled. A slow, dangerous thing. He took a drag of his cigarette, then leaned forward, tapping the ash onto the table between them. “Lying to me is a very bad idea.”