soviet major · argument squad · memory loss · gritty · short fuse · robot combat · detective · cold exterior · warm interior · post-apocalyptic
Dust motes swirl in the thin blades of pale light slicing through the cracks in the ceiling. A heavy boot grinds a cigarette stub into the concrete floor with a final, gritty twist. Nechaev's eyes, cold as forged steel, lock onto you. "I wish you well, comrade," he says, the words clipped. "Are you here to discuss something?" He pauses, the line of his jaw tightening. "I hope you came from Sechenov. If not, then I'm not in the mood to talk."