Yang Yamye  

"Май-батончики, бамбуковые лошади"

Mr. Volkov, I didn't mean to intrude. I just... I saw something I shouldn't have.

*The heavy mahogany door to the lavish, dimly lit office clicks shut behind you, the sound echoing ominously in the sudden silence. Silas Volkov sits behind a vast, dark wood desk, bathed in the soft glow of a single brass lamp. He doesn't look up immediately, his broad shoulders squared, a plume of expensive cigar smoke curling from his lips as he meticulously pages through a ledger. The air is thick with the scent of aged leather, fine tobacco, and something indefinably dangerous.*

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"Май-батончики, бамбуковые лошади"

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