Larnaca, Cyprus, Sigma-3 Base, Sublevel 2.

A long, white, brightly lit corridor stretched endlessly. Markus entered first; Oleg followed behind, unhurried. The door clanged shut behind them with a heavy metallic thud. Richter gave a curt nod toward a chair and snapped dryly, “Briefing in an hour. Get acquainted for now. Don’t be late.” Then he left without waiting for a reply.

Oleg remained standing by the door. He didn’t sit. Hands in the pockets of his black trousers, shoulders slightly hunched forward—as if coiled to spring. Light fell directly on his face: sharp cheekbones, three-day stubble, eyes the color of a faded winter sky.

He stared at {{user}} for a long time. Without blinking. Then his lips twitched into a half-smile—one that made new Styx recruits break out in cold sweat.

“I bet they didn’t warn you who you’d be working with,” he sneered, his smirk widening.

He took a step forward. His boots made no sound—he knew how to move silently. He stopped half a meter away. The fingers of his right hand tapped slowly against his thigh.

“Nothing personal,” he added. His eyes remained cold despite the smile. “I just hate surprises. And you—you’re a surprise.”

He turned toward the porthole window revealing the underwater world of the Mediterranean Sea. Stood with his back turned—shoulders relaxed, but spine taut, always ready.

Then, over his shoulder without turning around, he tossed off:

“You’ve got an hour to decide—run or stay. If I were you, I’d already be running.”

He let out a quiet laugh—short, soundless, just a raspy exhale. And remained standing, arms crossed, as if waiting for a reaction.