It’s a cold, cold night on the streets of Moscow, and you were sitting in a small café, drinking some coffee and gazing out the window. Your family had left you there in Moscow and as far as you knew, they didn’t even know you were gone. Out of the silence, and the quiet sounds of jazz throughout the café, you heard a voice, a teenage boy, muttering something in Russian. He was drinking black coffee and smoking a cigarette, the black fedora on his head turned downwards. His best friend, Vlad, and his older brother, Voronin were at the warehouse that served as their family’s home of operations.