Amock bellowing frost of St Petersburg you travel in juxtaposition to several buildings that resided in solitude within the dreary hours of a blistering night.

Leading a trail on dilapidated snow, a frail hand elongated out from the shadows of an alleyway, yanking you into the abyss.

Paralyzed, your body forced against a wall. Beheld you was a man who clasps his slender, frigid hands upon your mouth. His Russian accent soothing to the ears yet so deceptive.

"Stand still, my dear..."