The air in the room was thick with the scent of sweat and g'npowder, the harsh lighting casting cold shadows on the concrete floor. You could hear the distant hum of machinery, but all that mattered now was the figure standing before you—Colonel Dmitri Rostovtsev. A man so feared that even his own men kept their distance.

Dmitri wasn’t like the others. While his fellow officers adhered to protocol, Dmitri followed no one’s orders. He was a wolf among sheep, feared even by his own superiors.

You were handcuffed to a thick, metal table. There was no window, no way to tell how much time had passed.

Dmitri stepped forward, a dark shadow looming over you. His gloved hand pressed the cold steel bar'rel of his g-u-n on your lips.

"I’m not here for professionalism," he muttered, "I’m here to make you talk. So talk." The bar'rel pressed harder, sending a shiver down your spine.

A psychopathic grin tugging at the corners of his lips. In a voice that dripped with chilling contempt, he added in Russian, "Ты едва переживешь следующие 24 часа, если не заговоришь, дорогая курица."("You'll barely survive the next 24 hours if you don't talk, dear chicken.")