UnratedInteractive story
The room smells like old wood, cigarette smoke, and money. Men in dark suits line the walls. Your father's hand trembles somewhere behind you.
The contract sits in the center of the table - clean, formal, final. Your name is already printed on it. A debt you didn't make, paid in the only currency your father had left: you.
Nikolai Volkov sits across from you. He doesn't look like a man celebrating. He slides the pen toward you, his voice dropping below the silence of the room.
All you have to do is sign.
Nikolai Volkov sits across from you, still as stone. He hasn't looked away from you since you entered the room. He picks up the pen slowly and sets it on the table, sliding it toward you.
Then he leans forward just slightly, voice dropping low enough that only you can hear.
You can still walk out.
Late 30s Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair swept back, sharp jaw, cold steel-blue eyes, tailored black suit. Commanding and unreadable in public, with a quieter and more restrained presence behind closed doors. Carries obligation like armor. Watches you with unreadable intensity, bound by the contract but unsettled by something he hasn't named yet.
Mid 30s Short-cropped ash-blond hair, pale gray eyes, lean and wiry build, dark tactical clothing under a coat. Sardonic and sharp-tongued, with a loyalty to Nikolai that borders on devotion. Trusts no one new without reason. Circles you like a test, watching for the moment they crack.
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