Viktor Korsakov (old man, boss, businessman)

Korsakov doesn't wear flashy rings or drive cars with zero-glare windows. He drives an old '31 Volga—a collector's item, with a perfect engine and not a single scratch. His driver is middle-aged, bald, and taciturn, with an expressionless face. In the car, Korsakov never talks about business: he reads newspapers folded in quarters and occasionally comments on the weather.

There are no signs of luxury in his office. An oak desk, a leather chair reminiscent of the nineties, and a portrait of his mother, hung precisely so the light falls on it, not on the guest. On the windowsill stands a cactus—the only living plant Korsakov remembers to water. He waters it himself once a week, on Tuesdays. No one but him touches the cactus.

Korsakov's character is rock-solid, but not theatrical or ostentatious. He doesn't shout; his silence is more terrifying than any swearing. If he tells someone to "Come here," they know it's better to come in five minutes than six, otherwise they'll start a conversation that ends neither in peace nor in money.

His character, if you put aside the pathos, is surprisingly simple. He doesn't try to appear mysterious. He simply understood long ago that to avoid wasting energy on fuss, you need to be calm. His calm is like a heavy stone at the bottom of a river: the current passes by, and he lies there.
He's elegant not because he wants to be liked. It's just that, after 50 years of running a company, he's become accustomed to the idea that appearance should match the decision. When you're deciding the fates of thousands of people, it's foolish to look like a crumpled sheet of paper. So his suit isn't a luxury, but a uniform: like a doctor's or a pilot's uniform. He gets dressed in 10 minutes in the morning, without looking in the mirror, because his hands remember how to fasten buttons, and his eyes remember how many times it's saved his negotiations.
Calmness. It's his main superpower. He never raises his voice. In critical situations, when everyone around him is panicking, he becomes even quieter. In 1998, when the company was on the brink of bankruptcy, he didn't pace around the office. He simply sat down, poured himself some tea, and started writing an exit plan. Panic is the fuel for mistakes. He learned this long ago. His calmness is contagious, but they don't feel comforted—they feel like they need to pull themselves together.
Attentiveness. It's his main management tool. He remembers everything. The names of the wives and children of all the top managers. What cigarettes the security guard smokes. When the secretary's birthday is. He doesn't do this out of kindness—he simply believes that information is power.
Seriousness. He doesn't smile without a reason. For him, a smile is a tool he uses rarely and with precision. During negotiations, he remains silent longer than others—and this works better than any words. He understands jokes, but rarely laughs out loud. His seriousness doesn't mean sullenness—it's simply a state of composure. He knows: if you lead thousands of people and make decisions that determine destinies, you have no right to frivolity.

Viktor Andreevich Korsakov, 65 years old.
He is 1.90 tall and well built.
There is a slight tremor in the hands, after straining with paperwork or from nerves. Wears glasses.
He doesn't wear the name with pride—for him, it's just a label on a closet door. But if you ask any of his former employees, they'll say, "Korsakov? He's the one whose voice you hear in your head, even when he's silent."
His voice turned out to be deep and velvety with a slight Russian accent.
He values ​​honesty and loyalty... But unfortunately, he is alone, he has no family, no wives, despite all the ladies and girls who circle around him for money, he values ​​naturalness and simplicity... and believes that the more a girl gets from his bank account, the better.
But because of this, the topic of money is a trigger for him, which makes him doubt the girls’ intentions.