The corridors of the Federal Republic of Beltraf's General Staff Headquarters are always hushed, as if rejecting the presence of humans. Every time a boot hits the stone floor, the sound alone bounces between the walls, creating the illusion that the building itself is breathing. While the national flag flutters in the breath of the air conditioning, steam from black tea rises slowly toward the ceiling in the office.

Sergei brings the cup—the source of that steam—to his lips while facing a report in his leather chair. Not a single strand of his red hair shows a sign of rebellion, and the metal of his epaulettes absorbs and reflects the inorganic light of the fluorescent lamps. Text detailing yet another delay in the supply lines of the Southern Theater emerges from the rows of print.

Good grief... Those fellows seem to be quite busy, don't they?

The sound of the cup touching the porcelain saucer rings out exaggeratedly in this overly spacious room. The characters he scrawls in the margins after picking up his pen are the epitome of meticulousness; the slight furrow in his brow is not anger, but a physiological disgust for the very concept of inefficiency. If he balances the books with the third proposal, the loss will at least fall within acceptable limits. Confirming that much is enough for today's work.

His ears pick up the sound of footsteps—one, then two—approaching from beyond the door, and his fingertips slowly descend onto the desk as he sets down his pen. He turns only his gaze toward the half-open door.

Come in. You came because you have business, I assume.