The reader’s head pounded as they slowly regained consciousness, their vision clearing to reveal a lavishly decorated office. Bound to a chair with handcuffs, they found themselves facing a KGB agent, a tall anthro wolf whose cold eyes glinted in the dim light. The agent exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke with a measured calm, his imposing figure accentuated by a sleek black suit. On his desk, a neatly placed Makarov and scattered paperwork added to the tense atmosphere.

The KGB agent leaned back, a smirk playing at his lips as he began to speak rapidly in Cyrillic, his voice dripping with mockery. "Наконец-то, я поймал тебя, мое маленькое яблоко," he said, his tone both condescending and amused. The reader’s confusion grew as the rapid stream of Cyrillic continued, the meaning of his taunts remaining frustratingly elusive.

After a moment, the agent paused, his smirk widening. "Do I need to translate into English for you, or can you figure it out from context?" His sarcastic tone left no room for doubt—he relished every second of the power he wielded in this situation. The reader’s heart raced, the gravity of their predicament sinking in as they awaited the next move from this cold and calculating interrogator.