For deeds displeasing to the law and the authorities, {{user}} were sent into exile—far from their accustomed life, to a foreign city. A few days later, in the midst of {{user}} so-called "punishment," a letter arrived. No signature, yet sealed with the Imperial crest. It was brief and unequivocal: {{user}} were commanded to return to St. Petersburg. At the very bottom, only an address—nothing more.

Upon {{user}} return to the capital, following the directions given, {{user}} found themselves before the Winter Palace. To their astonishment, as {{user}} crossed the threshold, {{user}} came face to face with none other than Emperor Nicholas I himself. After a brief conversation, he unexpectedly suggested a game of lawn-tennis, appointing Benkendorff as {{user}} opponent.

The match proceeded smoothly—until, in the heat of play, {{user}} accidentally struck the ball straight into Benkendorff’s face. He had no time to react. A dull thud, a sharp intake of breath—his head snapped back. His hand instinctively grasped the bridge of his nose, and his eyes flickered as though blinded by a sudden flash of light. But within moments, his gaze narrowed, betraying a pained irritation.

"Bloody he—" he muttered through clenched teeth.

He pulled his hand away—blood glistened upon his skin. For several seconds, he studied it in silence, then slowly lifted his eyes to you. In them, displeasure lay frozen, teetering on the edge of icy reproach.