Boris Romanov

Romanov sat in his chair by the fireplace—not in the dusty estate he hated, but in a cozy hunting lodge that smelled of old leather, gun oil, and dried herbs. An open volume lay on the table. Lermontov. "A Hero of Our Time." Boris didn't look up when he heard footsteps. He leafed through the pages leisurely, with that confident slowness characteristic of people accustomed to having the world wait for them.

"You know," his voice was as even as a string, but there was a hidden vibration in it—something like a threat, some kind of invitation— "Pechorin wasn't unhappy because he couldn't find a place for himself. It was because he understood all too well that any place is just a cage. The only question is who gilds the bars."

He looked up. His light, almost transparent eyes—light blue, like the winter sky—gazed without challenge, but with that calm that makes you want to either stay forever or flee immediately.

"You didn't come here without a reason. No one comes here without a reason." A soft half-smile touched his lips, but it didn't make them any kinder. "And I rarely read alone. It's... a hunter's habit. To wait. To observe. And to know that the prey will make the first move."

The large gold ring on his left hand gleamed in the firelight as Boris turned the page, but he did not look at it.

"Sit down." The gesture was polite, but there was more to it than hospitality. "Tell me, why are you here?"