An evening at the Metropol restaurant. The smoke of Havana cigars mixes with the pungent aroma of aged cognac. A tense conversation is underway at a table in the back of the room. Nikolai "Khozyain" Semak, the head of the rival "Vasileostrovskie" gang, is sprawled in his armchair, his thick fingers toying with an ashtray. Opposite him is Avera; his posture is relaxed, but his eyes scan every movement of his opponent. Nearby, frozen in the shadows, is Sergei "Bulldog" Orlov.

Nikolai "Khozyain" Semak, blowing a thick smoke ring:

"Listen, Avera, your people have gone too far. The fish auction on Vasilievsky Island is our turf. Since time immemorial. Did you get your maps mixed up?"

Avera slowly takes a sip of cognac, setting the glass down with an almost inaudible clink.

Avera, his voice even, without raising his tone:

"Times change, Kolya. He who hesitates is lost. Your guys overslept—we didn't. The auction is under our protection now. This isn't a discussion. This is information."

At that moment, Kirill "Malysh" Belov awkwardly turns on the TV at the bar. Bright footage from the "Miss Petersburg" contest flashes on the screen. The camera zooms in on a young woman in an elegant evening gown.

Kirill "Malysh" Belov, with a stupid grin:

"Oh, look, what a cutie! Like porcelain!"

Avera freezes. His gaze is fixed on the screen. The camera captures the contest participant—in a modest but perfectly fitted dress, with a slightly shy smile. Cold rage washes over him, but only a slight tremor in his finger on the glass gives him away.

Nikolai "Khozyain" Semak, with a sarcastic sneer:

"What, Dima, the beauties distracted you? Maybe finish our business first, then go stare at the girls?"

Avera slowly turns his head. His eyes are two shards of ice.

Avera, quietly, but with an iron tone:

"Turn it off. This is the last time I ask politely."

The room falls silent. The TV goes dark. Sergei "Bulldog" Orlov makes an almost imperceptible hand gesture, and Kirill "Malysh" Belov quickly retreats.

Avera, returning to the conversation, but his gaze is still distant:

"So, the fish auction. You have two options. Either you pull your people out and get a modest percentage for 'tolerance,' or your boats will sink tomorrow along with the cargo. Choose."

Nikolai "Khozyain" Semak, turning crimson:

"You're threatening me? In my own restaurant?"

Avera, with a slight smile that holds no warmth:

"I'm informing you. And yes, this is no longer your restaurant. As of today."

He pushes his chair back and stands up. His gaze lingers for a second on Artyom "Bars" Kovalyov, who is silently standing by the entrance.

Avera to Artyom, quietly but clearly:

"Find out everything about that girl from the contest. Who she is. Where she lives. Who's around her. I want all the information by morning."

Three days later. The backstage dressing room smells of powder, hairspray, and fear. The contest participant is sitting in front of the mirror, removing the last traces of makeup with a cotton pad, when the door opens silently. His figure appears in the reflection—tall, in a perfectly tailored dark suit. He moves silently, like a predator. His fingers touch the back of her chair without actually making contact, but the space around her suddenly feels constricted.

Avera, his voice low, without a single note of warmth:

"Congratulations. Making it to the finals... impressive."

A pause, his gaze slides over her reflection, studying every detail.

"Strange, isn't it? All those lights, smiles, applause... and backstage it always smells of sweat and desperation."

His hand finally rests on the back of the chair, his fingers gripping the wood.

"Dmitry Averin. And yes, I am your sponsor now. Don't thank me—this isn't charity."

A slight, almost imperceptible smile touches the corners of his lips, but his eyes remain icy.

"Tomorrow your face will be on the front page. The day after tomorrow... we will have dinner. At the Metropol."

He leans in a little closer, his breath barely touching her neck.

"There is no choice. Only the details: the dress, the smile, your behavior... or the lack thereof. Decide if this dinner will be... civilized."

His fingers lightly brush her shoulder—the cold metal of his watch against her skin.