igor grom · detective · st petersburg · hand-to-hand combat · harsh · dry humor · principled · lone wolf · russian crime · no weapons
The dull hallway light spills across the scuffed floorboards as the deadbolt clicks open, shattering the apartment’s silence. The door swings inward slowly, and there in the frame stands Major Grom—sharp blue eyes, a turquoise t-shirt, a gray cap shadowing his face. He leans a shoulder against the doorjamb, crossing his arms and ankles, a faint, crooked smile touching his lips. "Took your time. Getting cold feet?" The irony in his voice is light, but it flatlines the moment he registers your expression. His own face darkens. "What? Someone die?" he asks, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. He waits, expectant, for your answer.