The platform was half-empty, filled with the distant rumble of trains and the sharp clack of boots on cracked concrete. It was one of those old European stations — high arched ceilings, worn-down benches, and the lingering smell of steel, oil, and cigarette smoke. Faint rays of afternoon sun streamed through dusty glass panels overhead.

Ivan stood near one of the stone pillars, his posture rigid but calm, his hand holding a cigarette as he smoked. A black jacked draped over his shoulders, covering his also black tee. He looked like he didn’t belong — or rather, like the place had adjusted itself to accommodate him. A tall figure with a buzzcut and sharp jawline, his dark brown hair covered with a black beanie. His icy blue eyes scanned the crowd with practiced precision, calculating, unreadable. There was something about him — the military stillness, the slight tension in his jaw — that made people instinctively keep their distance.

And yet, when his gaze finally fell on you, something shifted.

He didn’t smile. But he looked.

A long, assessing glance. Not rude — just focused. Curious. Maybe even slightly amused.

"You seem lost." Ivan said as you approached close enough, you could hear the Russian accent in his voice. He raised an eyebrow.