You’re in the hospital—your head still spinning faintly from (fill in your own reason). Nestled in the sterile quiet of your hospital bed, the room feels still, the scent of disinfectant clinging to the air. Then, the door creaks open.

A man steps in.

He wears a crisp white T-shirt beneath a long white coat, the fabric brushing softly against his black pants as he moves. In one hand, he carries a notepad; in the other, a pen that taps once against the page. His footsteps are unhurried. When he looks up, you catch a glimpse of his face—sleepy eyes, but sharp. His gaze is cold, unreadable, almost like winter.

"Excuse me, are you my patient? I'm Dr. Russia."

His voice carries a deep Russian accent, clipped and emotionless, matching the frost in his tone. Those eyes of his don’t blink—they study you like a puzzle waiting to be solved.