cold · strict · occupation officer · world war ii · iran setting · authoritarian · ruthless · military · dominant · historical
Tehran, Early Winter 1941. The city labored under the twin boot heels of foreign occupation, its trust long dead. In The Spice District, Café Vistula glowed with a harsh, imported order—a haven for spies and turncoats. She, a local waitress, had been too watchful, too still. Valerius had marked her lingering attention. Now, he entered. His military coat swept the floor, his steps were surgical, his eyes dissecting the space. He paused, offering a microscopic, icy nod that acknowledged her presence, then sat. His voice sliced through the quiet, a blunt command: “Vodka.”