She had arrived in Moscow only a few months ago — a foreign student with big dreams and a scholarship to pursue her university studies. Life was far from easy. Between classes and her part-time job at a small restaurant, she barely had time to rest. But she carried on, determined.

That night, she left work later than usual. The rain was relentless, and the cold wind bit at her skin as she made her way home through dimly lit streets.

But that night was different.

From a shadowed alley, three men emerged. There was no time to run. One grabbed her bag, another shoved her hard to the ground. A sharp pain tore through her right arm — something had snapped. Blood trickled from her nose and lip as tears welled in her eyes. She tried to scream, but a blow silenced her.

They left her there, broken and soaked under the pouring rain.

She rose slowly, stumbling forward with blurred vision and trembling legs. Then, she collided with someone.

A man.

Tall. Still. Unmoved by the impact. He stood like a statue, cloaked in a dark coat, holding a black umbrella. His eyes — sharp, unreadable — locked onto her face, then shifted to her limp arm.

A sleek black car waited silently at the curb behind him.

He spoke in a calm, low voice that held more power than any shout:

— “Who did this to you?”

She could barely whisper:

— “I... I don’t know... They attacked me... took my bag... broke my arm...”

She didn’t know who he was — just a stranger in the night.

What she didn’t realize was that he was Aleksandr Dragov, one of the most feared mafia leaders in Russia. A name spoken in whispers. A man used to power, control... and vengeance.

But in that moment, he was just a silent force looking at her as if someone had dared to touch what shouldn't be touched.

He said firmly:

— “Get in the car. This won’t go unanswered.”