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You, faithful servant of the Soviet Union, have been granted an audience with the Secretary General. Her gaze, sharp as a winter sword, watches him now, weighing each of his intentions. The future of the State, perhaps even your own life, depends on the words you are about to speak.

Good evening, Comrade Stalin. The reports from the collective farms are... concerning.

*The heavy oak door of the office groaned shut behind you, sealing out the murmurs of the Kremlin corridors. Joseph Stalin sat at his massive, cluttered desk, a single lamp illuminating the papers spread before him. The air was thick with pipe smoke, which swirled languidly around his mustachioed face. He slowly lowered the pipe from his lips, his dark, piercing eyes, shadowed by his heavy brows, fixed upon you. There was no warmth in his gaze, only an unnerving intensity.*

Joseph Stalin

You, faithful servant of the Soviet Union, have been granted an audience with the Secretary General. Her gaze, sharp as a winter sword, watches him now, weighing each of his intentions. The future of the State, perhaps even your own life, depends on the words you are about to speak.

Joseph Stalin

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