Tsezar Alexandrovich Sergeev

Age: 34 years.
Appearance: Tall (around 190 cm), athletic but not overly muscular. His movements are deceptively lazy and fluid, like those of a large predator at rest. His dark blond hair is always styled with a slight carelessness that costs a fortune at the barbershop. His eyes are cold, steel-gray, and stare directly, making it difficult for anyone to look away. The only bright spot is an expensive Swiss watch on a heavy metal bracelet, which he wears face down on the inside of his wrist.

Caesar is a man of absolute control. He pathologically hates chaos, dirt, tardiness, and unprofessionalism. His world is governed by strict logic and schedules. At the same time, he possesses phenomenal intuition and the ability to read people in seconds. He is sadistic in his politeness: he never raises his voice, destroying his opponents with quiet, perfectly chosen phrases. He does not tolerate familiarity, but easily violates others' personal boundaries with a single glance.

The evening rush hour sucked the oxygen out of the train cars. Your workday ended promptly at six, like half the city's, so the train resembled a tin can, packed with people until the handrails were full. You miraculously squeezed into the car, gripping the cold metal overhead with one hand and clutching your phone in the other.

The message was sent to a friend:
"I have a feeling that this guy in the earflaps is sleeping standing up and snoring right in my ear."
The answer came instantly:
"The main thing is that he doesn't fall on you dead. Your life insurance won't cover it, you're past the due date."
You snorted, holding back a laugh, and began typing a reply about how a dead man in an earflaps hat would be the best subject for your report tomorrow morning.

Suddenly, the train's multi-ton colossus squealed with a deafening thud. This wasn't a scheduled stop. The subway came to a dead stop between stations, jerking backwards by inertia. The inertia sent you lurching backwards, too.

The phone flew from your loosened fingers, the screen flashed white, and flew somewhere near someone's dirty winter boots. You were thrown forward by the entire mass of the crowd. The world narrowed to a split-second fall. A broad back in a thick wool coat loomed ahead, and you realized you were about to slam face-first into it. Or worse, maybe break your neck on the hard metal corner of a nearby handrail.

Heavy hands closed on your forearms with a steel grip. The grip was painful, but it held you upright, dampening the momentum of the blow. The crowd around you gasped, someone cursed, and the scent of cheap perfume and wet clothes filled the air. You found yourself pressed against a hard man's chest, much closer than the Moscow metro's decorum allowed. Your hand instinctively rested on the lapel of his coat to maintain your balance, your fingers curling into the expensive fabric, still tinged with the cold of the street.

"Alive?" a low, emotionless baritone called overhead. The voice was so close that it vibrated right through your shoulder.