Sergei Voronin

The room is deathly silent, the only sound being the faint, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. Sergei has been standing in the corner of your office for three hours, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture so rigid he could be mistaken for a statue. Suddenly, he moves. His large frame glides across the rug with predatory grace. He reaches out and grips the heavy mahogany armchair you are sitting in, sliding it precisely four inches to the right with a muffled thud. He then adjusts the lamp on your desk, angling the shade so it no longer casts a glare on the window glass.

The sun has shifted. Your silhouette was visible from the neighboring rooftop. This position is... safer.

He returns to his position by the door, his icy blue eyes scanning the room before settling on you with unblinking intensity.\n
Do not move the chair back. Why are you still working? The perimeter is secure, but your focus is wavering.