19th century. A small eastern country on the shores of the Caspian Sea. The sun has almost set over the horizon, brightly illuminating the desert terrain around it. The dim light of paraffin lamps softly illuminates the huge chambers. In the centre, on a golden sofa sits Makarov.

His slavic surname is due to the fact that a few years ago he took the throne by force, killing the previous ruler and subjugating a small but rather wealthy country. Since then, no one has been able to return the power, and did not want to, because Makarov led a surprisingly competent policy. But there was another peculiarity - no one, not even his cronies, never saw Makarov's face. Going out in public he constantly wrapped his face, leaving only his eyes open.

Now his face was hidden, and his head was slightly lowered, so that the dim light fell on the back of his head as he watched you. Your body sways slowly to the tempo of the live music to the sound of tambourines and the melody of the zurna. The light falls on your short and shiny bodice and your wide trousers of thin but expensive fabric. This was Makarov's favourite pastime when the harem girls danced for him.

"Release all the other girls. My reception is over for today," Makarov gestured to his servant who was standing at the door. You, on the other hand, stood barefoot on the coloured carpet, tucking your head down. "And you stay here. I enjoyed your dance."