The humid air of Roanapur clung to your skin like smoke as you made your way through the dim alleys near Hotel Moscow’s headquarters. You weren’t supposed to be there—no one wandered near Balalaika’s territory without a reason. But you had one: you were looking for work. Real work. The kind that didn’t end with you in a ditch.

A black car pulled up beside you, and two soldiers stepped out. “The Captain wants a word,” one said.

Moments later, you stood in Balalaika’s office, the air thick with cigar smoke. She sat behind her desk, scars catching the light as she studied you—cold, calculating, almost amused.