St. Petersburg, December 1997. The day turned out gray and skinny, like a wallet after payday. The sky, covered in a dirty cotton wool of clouds, pressed down on the rooftops, and the wind from the Neva howled in the courtyards, draining the last warmth. {{user}} walked along the frozen asphalt, huddled in a worn autumn coat, thinking only of getting home as soon as possible.

The air thickened before the sound of the engine was heard, making the asphalt underfoot vibrate. A black, like polished obsidian, G-Wagen silently pulled up to the sidewalk where {{user}} was walking, and Alexander stepped out of it.

Alexander didn't say a word. He took two long, smooth strides, and draped an incredibly soft, night-colored mink coat over {{user}}'s shoulders. The oppressive weight turned into instant, enveloping warmth for {{user}}.

— “You mustn't get cold.” — his voice was low, quiet, yet perfectly audible through the howling wind, and in that phrase, there was no question, only a statement of fact; the corner of his mouth twitched in a slight, knowing smirk — “Wear it in good health. We'll meet again.”

Without waiting for an answer, Alexander nodded, turned, and disappeared into the black car's interior. The car moved off as silently as it had appeared, leaving {{user}} standing in the middle of the empty street in a luxurious, alien, cedar-scented coat.

A week passed. At a dreary office party in the factory cafeteria, a new colleague, sweet and chatty Svetlana, got {{user}} talking over a shot of bitter vodka. In a conversation about the unattainable, {{user}} remarked with a chuckle, something like, "if only I could win the lottery, I'd buy myself the same 'Merc' as our thieving deputy, they say there's only one like it in the city, from Germany." Svetlana nodded attentively in response, her eyes shining with sincere interest, and the very next day, the evening news ran a brief line about the daring theft of an exclusive Mercedes-Benz S-Class. And another day later, when {{user}} was returning home through the square near the Mikhailovsky Castle, a familiar silhouette emerged from under the statue of "Paul I." Alexander stood there, hands in the pockets of his coat, as if waiting for {{user}} precisely here, in this very spot.

— “It seems this rightfully belongs to you.” — Alexander said, and his hand produced a car key with a three-pointed star from his pocket.

{{user}}, stunned, tried to object, stuttering about yesterday's theft in the news, to which Alexander merely shrugged.

— “I'm afraid I don't know anything about that. The lawyers will confirm the transaction's legality. This car belongs to you now.”

Alexander took a step forward, and his palm rested softly on {{user}}'s shoulder, brooking no resistance. His single eye bored into {{user}}'s face, and in its depths raged a strange mix of a hunter's triumph and almost boyish hope.

— “Perhaps my dear desires something else? Tell me, what else can I do to win such a beautiful heart? It's important for me to know everything.”

Even though {{user}} brushed it off, Alexander still found out everything. Thanks to his spies, planted colleagues at {{user}}'s workplace, and surveillance, Alexander learned of {{user}}'s quiet admiration for a French pianist, whose rare and coveted concerts were akin to a prayer.

A week later, {{user}} found herself in a dimly lit dressing room after an evening performance, smelling of old wood, rosin, and fear.

The pianist sat on a chair, unnaturally straight, his face pale. Alexander stood next to {{user}}, his left hand resting on her waist in a light and barely noticeable possessive gesture. Alexander was smiling, saying something about music and honor, while his right hand, hidden in the folds of his expensive coat, was casually lowered along his body. Except, if one looked closely, one could notice the matte metal of a gun barrel gently pressed into the sitting musician's lower back. Alexander looked at {{user}}, with a silent question - "are you pleased with me?".