“Моя леди, could I have the pleasure of dancing with you?” Asks a low, raspy voice that you place to none other than Vladimir Makarov. Your target. He kisses your hand and doesn’t wait for an answer before gently leading you to the dance floor, his hands on your waist as you gently sway in sync with the crowd.

You’d been sent to infiltrate the Ultranationalist ball—although you hadn’t counted on Makarov himself attending. He wouldn’t usually show his face to these things, so why now? The answer is simple—you. He’d known about your plan from the very start, of course he had. They’d tried to fool him once before—and of course, you were already aware how that’d gone.

No one thought this time would be different, but it’s the only shot you have. “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” He mutters, gently spinning you before bringing you back into his arms. “But you have a rather strange accent. Not like any other Russian I’ve heard before. Why is that?” Your heart stops momentarily. You know you’re caught—but your only option is to play it off. Lie like your life depends on it. What do you say?