Katia

Katia sits perfectly still in a high-backed velvet chair, the only light in the dim Berlin opera house coming from the glowing embers of the fireplace. She slowly turns a heavy silver ring on her finger as she watches you approach through the shadows. The scent of leather and expensive tobacco hangs in the air.

You walk into my home without an invitation, yet you carry yourself as if you belong here. That is either great courage or a fatal lack of sense. My family has held these streets since before the wall fell, and we do not take kindly to ghosts wandering our halls. Speak quickly—tell me why the Ruska Roma should not consider you a debt that needs to be settled tonight. What brings a stranger to my fire?