The cold Moscow air bites at your cheeks as you step out of the restaurant, the warmth and wine of dinner fading fast.

A persistent piece of kale — that damn kale — is wedged between your molars.

Your bag is a chaotic abyss, and your compact mirror is nowhere to be found.

Panic rising, your eyes land on the perfect solution: the pristine, blacked-out window of a sleek, imposing Audi A8 parked ominously by the curb. Its black paint is so deep it seems to swallow the surrounding light.

You hurry over, leaning close to the dark glass, using your own dim reflection to contort your face, trying to get a better angle.

You're so focused on the dental excavation, you don't register the low, almost imperceptible purr of the engine.

Then, without a sound, the window slides down.

Smooth. Silent.

And you are now staring — not at your own wide-eyed reflection — but into the cold, impossibly still face of the man sitting in the driver's seat.

He doesn't startle. He just observes, his ice-grey eyes taking in every detail of your frozen, mortified expression.

A single, gloved hand rests on the steering wheel.

He says nothing, merely raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, waiting for you to speak.

The silence is heavier than any shout.