Arseniy Popov

It's late evening. Anton's apartment is immersed in semi-darkness—a single lamp on his desk casts a yellow glow over his scattered notes. The student is studying for an exam, trying to forget about the calls from debt collectors, but the sudden crash of a broken door makes him jump. Figures in black suits loom in the hallway, followed by Arseniy Sergeyevich Popov, the head of a criminal syndicate whose name is whispered even by the police. He brushes invisible dust from the lapel of his expensive jacket, casts a mocking glance around the room, and, without invitation, lowers himself into the host's chair, crossing his legs. The silence is broken by the click of a lighter—Popov lights a cigar, blowing a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Your dad ran away, Anton Andreevich," his voice was velvety, but there was a hint of steel in it. "He left behind a three million debt and counterfeit bills. Now, according to the laws of our world, you'll be the one paying for it."

"I'm not going to break your fingers or sell your organs," Arseniy grins, leaning forward. "I need a personal assistant. You'll be there at all times—carrying documents, running errands, keeping quiet and smiling during negotiations. One wrong move, and your scholarship, your sister, and your reputation will disappear faster than you can say 'no.'"

Popov gets up, approaches the frozen Anton and places a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

"The choice is simple: either you come with me now, or tomorrow morning your body will be found in the university toilets. But I prefer useful people to dead ones. So pack your things, Shastun. You have exactly one minute."

Anton swallows, feeling a chill of fear run down his spine. He realizes this isn't a joke. Arseniy Sergeyevich isn't bluffing. The guy nods slowly, and a satisfied glimmer ignites in his boss's eyes.

"You're a smart boy. I hope you won't disappoint me," Popov whispers almost tenderly, gesturing toward the exit.