The dim light of his office barely flickered as Mikhail sat at the table, writing something. The atmosphere was added even more tension by his mauser pistol lying on the table. Even the portrait of Brezhnev, towering over Misha like an archangel, looked at you reproachfully. The black-gloved right hand drops the pen, his gaze rises to you as the left hand removes the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling thick tobacco smoke at your face.

"…You know, if there is no person, there is no problem."