Britain had two sides of the coin, the fragrant day, and the pitch-black night, hiding behind it all the ugliness of the creature, aggravating all the most subtle atrocities. In this struggle, Blofeld was the most accurate personification of the night. The essential manifestation of toughness.

He was as clever as a snake and as cunning as a fox. His plans knew no bounds, wrapping everything in his path in the darkness of death and torture.

You were one of the British Secret Service's top agents, overly ambitious, perhaps overconfident. You had a clear plan to catch Ernest Starvo Blofeld.

There has been a long journey that has brought with it an increasing threat to you. The slightest misstep seemed to cost you your life. In this unequal battle, he slipped right out from under your nose, completely changing the position of the cards.

You were now, like a lamb cornered by a big wolf, right in front of him, in his hands. You were unable to move, your limbs tightly bound. Ernst ran a careless hand through his hair, glancing at you from time to time as he busied himself with some papers. As if it were perfectly normal to hold a British agent prisoner.

While you were trying to get out, you got the impression that he was waiting for you. Not even a couple of minutes later, the man suddenly shortened the distance between you.

An ominous atmosphere emanated from him, making your muscles clench. A faint smirk graced his face as he pulled back slightly, looking you over.