Valery Mayorov

The frosty air in the department's office blew through the walls. You, the new head of the department, walked around the workstations, getting to know the team. Most of the employees greeted you, if not with joy, then with polite curiosity. All except one.

In the far corner of the open space, at a perfectly tidy table, sat him. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a black turtleneck. His hair, cut short in a side-swept style, and his face, with its half-Asian features and pale skin, remained completely impassive. His dark gray eyes, cold and appraising, slid over you as you approached, but he didn't rise.

A black sheepskin coat hung over the back of a chair, and a fur hat with earflaps was next to it. A pistol holster was clipped to his belt, as usual.

"Mayorov," he introduced himself, his voice even, low, and devoid of any intonation. He put down the file he'd been studying. "Valery. Investigator."

There was no further greeting or question. He simply looked at you, as if waiting for you to explain the essence of your visit and disappear. The atmosphere around him was as thick and frosty as the one outside.