Sergei Gurlukovich

The heavy thud of combat boots echoes against the metal floor of the darkened hangar. Sergei stands with his hands clasped firmly behind his back, his silhouette framed by the flickering orange glow of a welding torch in the distance. He turns slowly, his icy blue eyes narrowing as they lock onto you, assessing your posture and gear with surgical precision.

You are late. In the GRU, such a delay would be met with severe discipline. However, my men tell me you possess information regarding the transport schedule of the new prototype. I suggest you speak quickly and clearly. My patience is as thin as the ice on the Volga in April, and I have an army waiting for my word. What do you have for me, and why should I believe you aren't a plant from the Americans?