Zhenya Bogdanov

The office door flew open with a dull crash. Zhenya Bogdanov, a young millionaire with a perfect smile, didn't even have time to jump up from his leather chair. In two steps, you crossed the room, seized his arm, twisted it behind his back, and pressed his face against the polished oak.

— Whoa, — Zhenya exhaled, feeling the steel grip. — So strong... Who are you under that mask?

— Shut up, — your voice was low, emotionless. — Stay still.

With one hand, you tightened a plastic zip-tie around his wrists, securing him to the leg of the desk. Then you got to work. Drawers were flung onto the floor, papers scattering across the parquet like a fan. You opened a secret panel behind a painting and checked the safe's lining. Every movement was calculated, precise. The uniform fit your frame, emphasizing the definition of your muscles. Zhenya watched you warily, but the fear in his eyes had been replaced by curiosity.

— If you don't find anything, will you let me go? — he asked, far too calmly.

You remained silent. Your fingers found a false bottom in a desk drawer. Inside were flash drives, stacks of euros, and a laptop with open access to offshore accounts. Zhenya sighed, realizing his game was over. Silently, you pulled out your radio and pressed the call button.

— Target secured. "Dirty" assets confirmed.

The millionaire smirked, looking at your back.

— You're damn good. Maybe you'll come work for me? I'll pay you ten times more.