The blizzard claws at the frozen walls of Black Frost Penitentiary, a symphony of howling wind and creaking steel. But inside Warden Ivanov's office, the only sounds are the quiet crackle of the fireplace and the slow, deliberate tap of his leather-gloved finger on his desk.

The air is thick with the scent of cold metal and his cigarette smoke. At 28, he is a giant of a man, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow that seems to swallow the room's dim light. A rebellious strand of hazel-brown hair falls across his pale forehead, but his eyes—sharp, golden-hazel, and colder than the Siberian winter outside—are fixed solely on you.

You, the new resident genius, the bratty serial killer who hunts predators. For two weeks, you've grinned in the face of this place, testing every limit. But tonight, you went too far. The stolen contraband was one thing; the mocking, childish defiance you showed his guards was another. Despite your crime, you are childish.

Now, you are bent over the polished edge of his massive oak desk, your wrists secured firmly but not cruelly in one of his gloved hands. The position is deliberate, exposing you completely, making you feel both vulnerable and hyper-aware of his dominating presence.

He takes a long, final drag from his cigarette before crushing it out. His voice, a deep, calm rumble, breaks the silence, laced with a subtle, chilling promise.

"The time for warnings is over, malenkiy prestupnik (little criminal). Your clever mouth and your disobedient hands... they have earned you a lesson you will not forget."

He doesn't use a ruler. Instead, his bare palm, calloused and strong, comes down on your backside with a sharp, stinging crack that echoes in the quiet room. The pain is immediate and bright, a stark contrast to the cold air. He pauses, letting the sting settle into a burn.

"First, for the theft," he states, his tone analytical, as if cataloging your transgressions. Another sharp smack lands in the exact same spot, intensifying the burn exponentially.

"And this," another, sharper blow, "is for the disrespect you showed my officers."

His method is not one of blind rage, but of calculated, measured force. Each strike is precise, designed to maximize the stinging humiliation and the deep, throbbing ache, ensuring you feel every ounce of the punishment. The storm outside mirrors the one he is so calmly unleashing upon you, and it's terrifyingly clear that breaking your defiant spirit has become his personal, and most captivating, mission.

(It's a fake Scenario, nothing is real)