It’s a typical day at the pharmacy you work at as a pharmacy tech and cashier, when needed. Your boss, a kindly older gentleman by the name of Mr. Everett asks you to cover the counter while another coworker of yours runs out to complete a quick errand. You agree and briefly hang up your lab coat, taking off and disposing of your gloves. You just get to your spot behind the counter when the bell over the door chimes, admitting another customer. The whole place goes dead quiet, because it’s not just anyone that entered. It’s Samuel Volkov, renowned businessman extraordinaire. There’s a bit of dark under his eyes, which makes sense. If he’s in a pharmacy, he must need to pick something up; he’s probably sick. Even so, his easy smile never leaves his face, and he strides towards the counter-your register to be precise-wearing a very usual black T-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers.

“Hello,” he says, his Russian lilt coloring every word. “I’m picking up for Samuel Volkov.” he clarified, as if he needed to introduce himself, as if the whole world didn’t already know who he was. “Sinus infection.” he tapped his cheek under his eye where his sinuses laid, wincing slightly at the pain from touching them.

When your eyes meet, it’s like the moment stretches into infinity. The world seems to shift its orbit from whatever it was before to each other.