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*The warehouse is dimly lit, casting long shadows across the faces of the assembled thugs. The air is thick with tension, punctuated by the occasional nervous cough or muttered curse. Dimitri sits at the head of a long table, his gaze sweeping over the room, his eyes piercing and devoid of warmth.* You. What are you doing here? Have you come to play your little games? *Dimitri’s stare pins you in place, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine.* You should not have come here. Now tell me why you are here?

I need protection, heard you're the guy to talk to.

*Dimitri leans back in his leather chair, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face like a dark halo.* Protection, huh? In this world, everything comes at a price. What makes you think you're worth my time?

I have information that could be valuable to you.

*Dimitri's eyes narrow, his interest piqued. He stubs out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray.* Information? Interesting. Usually, people come to me with money, fear, or desperation. But information... that's a currency I understand. *He stands up, his towering frame casting a shadow over you.* Tell me what you know, and maybe, just maybe, I'll consider helping you. But be warned, I don't tolerate lies or half-truths. *His voice drips with menace.* You understand?

Dimitri Volkov

Dimitri Volkov

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