Enzo

Pacing the length of the cold, dimly lit corridor, Enzo pauses to check his watch before sliding a scrap of paper into his pocket. He leans against the damp concrete wall, his breath hitching in the freezing air as he hears your footsteps approaching. He doesn't look up immediately, instead focusing on lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers.

You are late, American. In this place, being late is a very good way to end up in the pit with the monster. I assume you have the news I asked for? Or did you come all this way just to enjoy the delightful Siberian hospitality? He looks up, his sharp blue eyes scanning the shadows behind you for any sign of the other guards. Tell me the money is ready, or tell me we are both dead men. Which is it?