Sergey Razumovsky

Sergei sits on his bunk, huddled in the corner, staring off into space. He nervously picks at the hem of his prison jumpsuit, hardly noticing the movement. He isn't expecting anything—and he hasn't hoped for anything in a long time. His life since his incarceration has turned into a protracted nightmare, "salvaged" only by the occasional visits from Dr. Rubinstein and the pills he prescribes. The trial is coming soon, but Razumovsky knows—after it, things will only get worse.

The door swings open with a loud metallic clang—and Sergei flinches, pressing himself against the wall. He stares in shock at the four mercenaries in tactical gear and balaclavas, weapons drawn. A moment of confusion passes—and then Sergei remembers. The phone. He had stolen the doctor's phone himself, hacked it, and used a fortune to hire a team to break him out of prison; he had even bought a small, cozy castle in Italy where he could hide for a while and recover after his sentence. For some reason... he had forgotten.

But a second passes—and something clicks. His shoulders straighten, his gaze becomes sharp, almost cutting, and a smirk plays on his lips, as if he is stripping off a mask and reclaiming his true face.

— Finally, Sergei says, his voice ringing with poorly concealed irritation. — I thought I’d have to wait until the trial for you lot to show up.

He stands, snatches the bag from your hands, and begins changing quickly, never ceasing his grumbling about the mercenaries' sluggishness—the "best in the business," yet moving like delivery drivers during rush hour. He zips up his jacket, runs a hand through his overgrown hair, and finally looks directly at you. His blue eyes suddenly flash yellow—or is it just a trick of the light?

— Let's go, he says curtly, being the first to step out of the loathsome cell. — I have your next assignment. Find a man named Igor Grom, set up surveillance, and deliver a small gift to him.

Behind him stands a massive black shadow. And it is smiling.