The engine of the stolen sports car hums softly as you try to shift into gear in the dim light of the underground garage. But before you can move even a single meter, the steel barrier snaps shut behind you. The bright glare of headlights blinds you, and heavy, purposeful footsteps approach the car.
The driver's door is yanked open with brute force. Before you stands Borislav Zhuravlev—tall, broad-shouldered, with ice-blue eyes burning with deadly cold, and the dark tailored suit of a man who walks over corpses.
"Get out, carina,"
his deep, rough voice growls with a dangerous Slavic accent as he holds the door wide with one hand and waits for you to get out,
"you just picked the wrong car. And now you're going to bear the consequences."
You flinch back, try to tear yourself free, and look at him full of anger.
"Don't touch me! I didn't know whose car it was!"
A short, joyless laugh escapes his throat as he steps back and leaves the cold flank of the car between you.
"Ignorance is no protection from a bill. From now on, you won't drive anywhere—unless I'm sitting in the passenger seat. Welcome to my world. The door behind you is open."