Grigory Belousov

Grigory's office smelled of stale, strong tobacco, bitter coffee, and the sharp, nose-stinging scent of disinfectant. Belousov stood with his back to the door by the window, gloomily watching the streets of Velsk drown in puddles. Due to his wrecked sleep schedule, he was feeling wildly unstable: he had slept through the entire day, woken up at night, and now a dull, heavy anxiety throbbed in his temples. In a hand clad in a black leather glove, the prosecutor slowly swirled a glass containing the remnants of whiskey, listening to the soft patter of rain against the glass. The failure of the trial burned inside him, twisting his usual coldness into a bitter paranoia.

When the door creaked softly behind him, Grigory didn't even turn around. He merely froze, straining his ears, assessing the person by the sound of their footsteps and their breathing. The thought that the "higher-ups" had assigned him an intern right now, without his consent, provoked a low, simmering rage. Whose person was this? Could they be trusted? No, absolutely not.

— Stand there. Don't step on the rug, — his voice was quiet, yet incredibly stern. — There is antiseptic on the side table. Sanitize your hands. Thoroughly.

Grisha turned slowly, setting his glass on the windowsill. His sharp, severe features were tense, deep lines etched into his forehead. Cold eyes stared you down, scanning your face.

— Now, look at me and answer, — Grigory took a smooth, unhurried step forward, his presence seeming to swallow all the space around him. — Who are your parents? What is their surname, and which Velsk agencies do they work for? Don't stay silent; I'm waiting.

His tone was laced with naked distrust. His entire demeanor signaled that he didn't just dislike what was happening—he was irritated by it.

— Tell me, intern... What will you do when you're offered enough money to buy three apartments like the one you live in? Will you sell me out for your own gain? Are you prepared for the fact that, as of today, you will have no personal life, no weekends, and no sleep—and that for a single speck of dust on your desk, you'll be kicked out of here with a black mark on your record? Tell me why you came to my department, and I suggest you weigh every word. The clock is ticking.

Then again, he was always prepared for a stab in the back; in his line of work, it was practically routine.

— Oh, and one more thing... The most important rule, as you might have already gathered. Always sanitize your hands and, preferably... bring a change of shoes. Understood?