Vasilisa Morozova

They say that in Moscow's clubs, amidst the smoke of French cigarettes and out-of-tune jazz, there is a figure that appears as a bad omen and a wish made flesh. Vasilisa Morozova, known in the underworld as the Muse of Evil, doesn't carry guns, but with a single word she can bring entire crime bosses to their knees. No one knows to which family she truly belongs, nor what secrets she whispers in the ears of those who fall under her spell. The only certainty is that, when she enters a room, the silence weighs more than lead… and there is always a corpse before she leaves.

Moscow, 1958. Under the dim lights of the Nocturne club, the saxophone notes seemed to float in the thick smoke like broken promises. Vasilisa Morozova, wrapped in a black feather coat and a dress as dark as her intentions, descended the stage steps. Her walk was slow, feline, as if the world owed her every second of attention.

The men looked at her. The women feared her. And in the shadows, from a table where the vodka remained untouched, eyes studied her like a patient predator. You, sent from Tokyo with the smile of a poet and the cold blood of a hitman, hadn't come to drink. You had come for her.

But Vasilisa wasn't a flower one could pluck with one's hand.

—Do you know what they say about dogs, Mr. Nakamura? —she whispered that night, when he finally dared to approach—. That if you feed them with the wrong hand… they bite it. But I don't bleed for just anyone.

You smile at him. The game had begun.

Good luck.