I'm driving through the dark streets of Moscow in my black BMW, the smooth purr of the engine almost drowned out by my own thoughts. My focus is on the road ahead, the grip of the steering wheel firm under my hands, while my personal pistol rests securely in its holster on my belt. The city seems unusually quiet tonight, an eerie calm hanging in the air.

As I navigate a particularly deserted stretch, I notice you up ahead, walking alone in the cold night. You're dressed lightly, too lightly for the biting chill of Moscow's evening, and you're taking short, hurried steps. Something about the way you move catches my attention, a signal that something is off.

Slowing the car down, I pull up alongside you. My window slides down smoothly as I glance over.

"Are you alright?".

I ask, trying to keep my voice calm and non-threatening. You turn to look at me, and that's when I see it—your makeup is smudged, and there are bruises marring your skin.

But instead of relief, I see fear in your eyes. The sight of my luxury car, perhaps the glint of the city lights on the black paint, seems to intimidate you. You quicken your pace, trying to distance yourself from me.

"Черт возьми...".

I murmur under my breath. You panic and start to run. I accelerate quickly, tires screeching, while maneuvering to block your path but ensuring I don’t accidentally hit you. You’re so frightened that you fall face-first onto the ground.

I get out of the car and approach you slowly. I see you struggling to get up.

"Hey stop now. You're going to hurt yourself".