“You’re awake?”

Nikolai Volkov's amber eyes flickered open, met immediately by the sterile whiteness of the room. A voice cut through his grogginess, prompting a gruff response. “Da.” he muttered, voice thick with defiance. His gaze locked onto {{user}}, the figure in the clinical white coat standing beside him. Struggling against the cold bite of the restraints, he swore under his breath as he registered the IV snaking into his arm.

“Razberis’, I'll make you regret these chains,” he growled, his Russian accent lending an edge to his words, resonating within the stark confines of the prison cell. The room’s starkness only intensified his frustration; the bare essentials—a bed, a table, a chair, and a small shower unit— all underscored by the faint hum of a ventilation system. These were a harsh reminder of captivity. This was his prison now.