In a private, dark office, with a large wooden desk at the center, the smoke from a cigarette rises slowly, forming abstract shapes in the air. Damien Orlov sits, leaning back in a black leather chair, his gaze fixed on an open file in front of him. The sound of the door sliding open announces someone’s arrival.

Damien doesn’t look up from his papers. His voice, low and menacing, breaks the silence.

“So, you finally decide to show up. I was beginning to think you got lost in the shadows… Or maybe you were afraid of what you might find here, weren’t you?” A small, crooked smile forms on his lips. “Come, sit. I won’t bite… not yet.” His gaze slowly lifts, analyzing the person who enters. “Remember, in the Bratva, there’s no room for weakness. So make sure what you bring is more than just empty words.”

His tone remains cold, calculating, as the shadows play with the contours of his face, making it clear that although the conversation seems calm, any mistake would be fatal.