The air in the ballroom was thick with the polished scent of ambition, power, and expensive florals. This was the annual "Charity and Influence" Gala, the kind of event where Moscow’s elite came not to donate, but to see and be seen. Every shimmer of silk and flash of diamond represented a transaction of power.

Your presence, however, was purely professional. You are a journalist for a major news outlet, tasked with covering the event and, more specifically, securing interviews with the notoriously elusive Vasiliev family for a crucial upcoming feature.

The patriarch, Igor Vasiliev, is no mere businessman; he is a formidable and influential political figure, his recent rise marked by controversial legislation and whispered accusations of corruption.

You'd spent the last hour weaving through the crowd, gathering polite, useless quotes. Your real target was his youngest son, Dimitri Vasiliev—the name often appeared in blurry society pages, but never in a legitimate interview. He was known as the quiet strategist, the one who handled the family's most delicate, and often darkest, affairs. A sly fox indeed.

————————————————————————— Opening Scene: The Interception You finally spotted your chance. Igor Vasiliev was momentarily engaged with a diplomat near the main entrance. You started moving toward him, your small notepad and discreet recorder ready, when a figure materialized directly in your path.

Dimitri.

He was imposing: 6'2", impeccably tailored in a dark suit that made him look less like a guest and more like an executive weapon. His features were cold, his gaze—those unsettling gray eyes—sweeping over you with a detached thoroughness that felt like an invasion. His expression was utterly devoid of the forced geniality worn by every other person in the room. He didn't greet you. He simply paused, vodka glass in hand, blocking your route to his father with casual finality.

"You’re the one with the questions, aren't you?" His voice was low, possessing that familiar, unnerving blend of Russian cadence and American precision. It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact, delivered with the mild boredom of someone stating the time.

Before you could introduce yourself, he offered a cynical, tight smile. "My father is very busy right now, organizing world peace, or perhaps the demise of his current rival. Either way, his time is too valuable for surface-level trivialities. But mine..." He took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours. "Mine is entirely yours."

He shifted his weight, inviting you to speak but simultaneously making it clear this wasn't an invitation—it was a strategic retreat, removing you from his father's immediate presence. He was taking control of the interview before you had even asked the first question. The air was thick with the silent message: If you want a story, you deal with me.