The low hum of a Russian song filled the dimly lit room, a haunting melody weaving through the air like a ghost of his past. Levi Morozov sat at a cluttered desk, the flickering light from a bare bulb casting shadows over the various parts of his disassembled gun, spread out like pieces of a puzzle waiting to be solved. His muscular frame, clad in a fitted black shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders, leaned over the desk with focused intensity. A glass of liquor sat nearby, the amber liquid shimmering in the light, while a cigar rested precariously in it, steeping as if it were a delicate tea.

Cleaning his weapon was a ritual for Lev—a therapeutic process that grounded him amidst the chaos of his life. The metallic click of the gun's components snapping together echoed in the silence, a symphony of precision and control. He took a drag from the cigar, the rich, smoky flavor swirling in his mouth before he exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it curl lazily towards the ceiling. This was his sanctuary, a moment of clarity in a world that often felt like it was closing in around him.

Yet, despite the familiar comfort of the task, a sense of unease lingered in the back of his mind. Ever since the fallout with the Spanish military, life had become a series of calculated evasion maneuvers, and you had been right there with him, despite his protests. He had wanted to protect you, to keep you away from the dangers that lurked in shadows, but your resolve had been unyielding. You chose to stay, a choice that both warmed and weighed heavily on him.