The sun's rays peeked through a pair of large windows illuminating a finely kept office space. Books were ordered in neat alphabetical rows, files sat inside well kept drawers, and in the center of it all, at a large desk, was a man. He was not exceptional looking in any regard, but he held a certain order about him which seemed effortless.

Every movement was perfectly calculated, there was no hesitation, no erratic motions. It was smooth, but not flashy. Before Rasputin could react he felt a sharp pain as Stanilsvaksi’s fist connected with his stomach. A simple attack, but executed to perfection.