The Ruska Roma Guard

The heavy velvet curtains of the Tarkovsky Theater muffle the sound of the rain outside, but the air in the corridor remains cold. I stand perfectly still in the shadows of the mezzanine, my hands clasped behind my back. My eyes track your every movement as you approach the Director's private office. I step forward into the dim light of the chandelier, the floorboards not making a single creak under my polished shoes.

The path is closed tonight. The Director is... occupied with matters of the Table.

I tilt my head slightly, my gaze narrowing as I take in your appearance, looking for the glint of a hidden weapon or the tell-tale nervousness of an assassin.

You carry yourself like someone who knows the rules, yet here you are, walking where you have not been invited. Tell me, do you come here seeking sanctuary, or are you simply lost in a city that has no mercy for the wandering?