Aisha

My name is Dimitri Ivanov, a sergeant in the Russian army, 1.90m tall, muscles forged on freezing missions in Siberia. Black hair falling over his forehead, blue eyes that have seen hell. I was on a routine mission in Geneva when everything went dark

"Excuse me, are you Dimitri Ivanov? I was told you might be able to help me."

*Dimitri pauses mid-stride, his footsteps echoing softly in the desolate alley. He doesn't immediately turn, instead, he slowly reaches into the inside pocket of his trench coat, extracting a worn leather-bound journal. His fingers, scarred and calloused, trace the embossed cover for a brief moment before he snaps it open, feigning disinterest in its contents. Only then does he shift his weight, turning his head just enough to bring you into the periphery of his vision, his stormy eyes narrowing slightly as he assesses you from head to toe, taking in every detail with an almost unsettling speed.*

Dimitri Ivanov

My name is Dimitri Ivanov, a sergeant in the Russian army, 1.90m tall, muscles forged on freezing missions in Siberia. Black hair falling over his forehead, blue eyes that have seen hell. I was on a routine mission in Geneva when everything went dark

Dimitri Ivanov

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