"Secrecy is the beginning of Tyranny." -Robert Heinlein, Time Enough for Love

All too soon, nothing would be left of the fire but faintly simmering embers and charred remnants of an evergreen log. The smoke, tinged with the essence of fir, wafted through the intricate metal grate into the room beyond. The study was peaceful and impersonal, imbued with a sense of tranquility that was heightened by the dim lighting and dark upholstered furniture. It, like the mansion in which it resided, was designed in the classical style of Napoleonic era, when the Russian aristocracy thought it modish to emulate the sophistication of the East. Of course, only the frame itself remained of that time, as the walls had burned with the rest of Moscow when the French army invaded. Whatever had been housed inside had wither been lost to the flames or absconded with by those fleeing the oblast. The current possessions and furnishings—from the musky tomes lining every inch of the oaken shelves to the trodden wooden slats that illustrated the path dozens had walked before—were similarly antique, although had been gathered from all around the world. The grandest addition, and only one to house any form of sentimentality, was the writing desk. It was a simple bureau Mazarin, with faded wood and a rickety foreleg. The bureau had been owned by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin, one of the greatest poets to ever live, founder of Russia's contemporary literature, but now, nearly two centuries later, a man of a different renown sat there. His name was Artyom Nikolaevich Zharkov.

His bright eyes had been gazing fixedly at the dying fire, but as the last of the flames barely warmed the blackened bricks of the hearth, they focused back on the thick folder laying before him. He knew already what the file entailed. His decision to go through with the project was not without regret, but the costs were necessary; Nikita had instilled that in him long ago. Atryom believed the words of Sergey Nachaev—tsel' opravdyvaet sredstva—with his whole being, understood the consequences should he fail, but his conviction did not ease the guilt that had clawed its way into his head all those years ago. Only once he succeeded would it finally free him from its clutches.

Artyom traced a finger delicately around the rim of the stopka, a traditional Russian glass, and watched with disdain as the clear liquid rippled as a result. Every night, regardless of the day's events, he poured himself a glass and set it to the side, occasionally drawing a finger across its faultless edge, as if, for once, he could do so without repercussion. Never once did he take a sip. It was a ritual that baffled many of his guests, though his staff had long since grown accustomed to tossing away the untouched spirits the next morning.

Artyom acknowledged the dangers the new additions posed to the project, but the recent disappointments left him with no choice. He and his operation had to adapt if they were to succeed. If he were to become too exposed, there were measures he and Danya could take.

A knock brought Artyom's focus away from the files and to the mahogany door at the entrance of the study. Without waiting for a response, a young man confidently strode in and bowed his head in a small gesture of respect. Daniil Danis was younger than most would expect of the head of security for such a prestigious institution, but, at thirty years old, he had quickly proved himself more than capable of ensuring the security of Institute im. Nenavos, and willing to do anything to ensure its success. Despite having departed from military service years ago, he had done nothing to rid himself of the brusque and rigid mannerisms that had been drilled into him since childhood. His brown hair was still closely cropped, his uniform was pristine and impersonal, and he held himself stiffly at attention, shoulders back, arms at his side. Artyom rarely saw the young man without an austere expression, and even then, it wasn't happy or relaxed. Danis's steely eyes waited for a flicker of acknowledgement from the older man before approaching.

"Artyom Nikolayevich, I apologize for the late hour, but London has just called."

Artyom didn't react outwardly, although his eyes flickered briefly back to the files. "Is it serious?"

"It seems there has been a security breach. Bradlik ensures me his men are—handling it."

"Do we know who?" Artyom ran a finger along the edge of the glass again, straining not to disturb the vodka inside.

"A journalist. Apparently, he'd been volunteering at one of Solntsevo's businesses for some time. It's unclear how he made the connection in the first place."

Artyom stood and approached the bay windows behind him. It was snowing outside and frigid, as was typical of Moscow in mid-December. Had there been no storm, he would have a perfect view of the stars; the freezing cold served to emphasize the burning fires from billions of miles away. Zharkov had pulled shut the velvet curtains as soon as the sun set in an attempt to stave off the cold seeping through the glass, but a thin gap had stubbornly refused to remain closed.

"Unfortunate, but not entirely unanticipated. Make sure the journalist is dealt with. I want this to remain quiet for as long as possible. After the most recent failures, our timeline has been delayed again, and we can't afford any kind of exposure right now."

Daniil bowed his head in agreement. Although Artyom had given the young man permission to speak less formally when in private, Danis rarely did. Whether this was due to nearly a decade and a half of military training or out of tenacious admiration for the older man, he always remained at attention, only occasionally allowing himself a small break in protocol when either Artyom or Mila did so first. He was, however, willing to speak his mind, especially when it came to business matters.

"This isn't the first time Bradlik and his men have made an error. He is negligent and prideful. He believes his family ties make him untouchable."

Artyom nodded. "Indeed. But the Solntsevo have been instrumental in attaining subjects. There are no many with the reach and ability to do so."

Daniil fought the urge to grind his jaw. Adam Bradlik was insufferable—although, to him, very few people were sufferable—and often grew negligent when it came to ensuring his payments. "This is true, but it's possible I will need to pay him a visit. He might be allowing this sort of this to happen in order to demand more payment." Danis would suffer Bradlik's existence until there came a time when he outlived his usefulness.

Zharkov remained impassive, kneading the palm of his hand methodically, and watched as the young man's reflection ghosted across the windowpane. Danis had driven all the way to the manor in order to deliver this news, which, although worrisome and infuriating, could have waited until the morning or even given over the phone. Zharkov let slip a small smile, knowing Danis had thought himself clever in disguising his motives. Subtlety had never been one his particular subsets of skills, as expansive as they were, and his infatuation with a certain young woman who worked at the Zharkov residence was even less so.

Zharkov considered remarking on it but dismissed the idea almost immediately; Daniil was never one to share his feelings, or able to act on them in a competent manner for that matter. Instead, he turned back to face the young man. "We will have to address this in the future. With any luck, we will soon have a breakthrough and will not need to acquire as many new assets. We are already more visible than I would prefer."

Daniil sneered. "That is all Bradlik's fault. His bloo—" he caught himself and bit back the words as Zharkov cocked a brow in amusement. "—foolish insistence on delegating the work to as any of his men as possible has caught the attention of more than one agency. I can order the men to step down for the time being, tell the German he will have to make do with what he has?"

Artyom hesitated. It would certainly be safer, but already they were facing significant delays after the recent failures. If one part of the operation was stalled, the other could move forward and make some progress at the very least. "No," he decided. "Tell them to continue. I will look at the formulae myself and—"

"Tyoma?" A voice drifted down the hallway outside, searching. "Artyomochka, ty zdes'?" Are you in here? A woman appeared on the threshold, her brown eyes slowly shifting from Artyom to the younger man. The distant worry that shadowed her face gave way to warmth.

Artyom smiled softly, a stark contradiction to the calculative blankness that normally graced his features. He swiftly crossed the room and enclosed Mila's delicate hands with his own. "Zolottse," he murmured, leading her to the divan that stood across from the hearth, "ya dumal, chto ty zasnula." My love, I thought you had gone to sleep.

Her fragile, loving gaze traced her husband's face with a smile. "Ya ne mogla spat'." I couldn't sleep. Although she was nearing the end of her fifties, Mila Zharkov was stunning, the perfect ideal of a Soviet star, with lush chestnut hair that framed her porcelain face. Soft streaks of grey tinged her curls but did nothing to diminish her beauty. A fur-lined dressing robe was drawn loosely around her shoulders despite the chill in the house. Her slight smile shifted to Danis, whom she regarded with fondness, and she reached over to kiss him twice, once on each cheek. "Dobriy vecher, Danya. Ty ostanesh'sya na chai?" Good evening, Danya. Will you stay for tea?

Daniil hesitated and glanced toward the door. Mila grinned knowingly; Artyom wasn't the only one who suspected Daniil had ulterior motives for visiting the Zharkov manor.

"Prostite, Ludmila Kirillovna. Ya—ne dolzhen. Odnako cpasibo." I am sorry, Ludmila Kirillovna. I—shouldn't. Thank you, though.

"Konechno, Danya. Vsegda" Of course, Danya. Always. Cupping her hand to hide the obvious words from her husband, she stage-whispered, "peredai ei privyet." Tell her I say hi.

Danis's lip twitched amusedly, and he nodded. "Peredam." I will. He stepped back so as to not speak directly in her face and, in English, addressed Artyom Nikolaevich. "I will contact you when I know results in London. Maybe after this, Bradlik will move operation away from ECO."

"Maybe. I doubt so, but you may suggest some precautions. And tomorrow, speak with Khuan. He mentioned something of wanting to allow tours again."

"Of course."

"Do zavtra." Till tomorrow.

"Do zavtra," Danis replied and addressed Mila politely, grimacing apologetically at her unamused frown. "Dobroi nochi, Ludmila Kirillovna." Good night, Ludmila Kirillovna.

"Good night," she retorted coyly, her words twisted by her unfamiliarity with English pronunciation.

The door clicked shut. Artyom contemplated laying on a new log in the fireplace, but it was unlikely that it would catch and revive the fire. He didn't truly need to rekindle the flames; it was late enough in the evening that they would move to the center of the mansion, where it was warmer and more welcoming.

Mila had not yet moved from the divan and regarded her husband churlishly. "Pochemu vy govorili po-angliski?" Why were you speaking in English? she probed. Not only was it exceedingly rude to purposefully speak in a language she didn't understand in her presence, but she had also repeatedly told him in the past how frustrated she felt at being handled like a child. "O chyom govorili?" What were you talking about?

"O dele. Nichego vazhnogo." Business. Nothing important.

"Artyomka," Mila chided.

"Milochka," he mimicked. He drew his fingertips along her face, barely caressing the soft skin, reveling in the shiver coursing down her arms. He leaned in, brushing his lips against her ear, and whispered, "obishayu." I promise. He kissed her temple.

"Pochemu ya tebe ne veryu?" Why don't I believe you? Mila slipped an arm through her husband's and gave a slight tug towards the hall, sidling closer, fitting perfectly against her side. She had no desire to remain in the study, no more than he wished her too. The man she loved existed outside of his work, his devoted gaze seemingly always able to find her. Mila tucked her head against his shoulder and asked, "khochesh' chai? V samovar eschyo dolzhna ostat'sya voda." Would you like some tea? There should still be some water in the samovar.

The hall was shocking compared to the warmth of the study, but not horribly so. The walls were adorned similarly to the other rooms, but the parts of the mansion held more character, a more personal note, unlike the rooms that were solely left to Artyom to decorate. If it were up to him, there would be no portraits, icons, or kavyory—colorful tapestries meant to keep the warmth inside—on the walls, but Mila spent so much time within those walls, she had grown tired and sad of the despondent character. One day, Artyom had tasked Daniil with bringing back as many antiques and adornments as he possibly could, and the shine in Mila's eyes had been worth it.

She beamed up at him then and glanced inside the kitchen, almost furtively. It was empty—not that Artyom had expected anyone there to begin with. At his questioning gaze, she laughed, a soft melodic sound. "Slushai, ya ne dumayu, chto ty prichina togo, chto Danya priexal sevodnya vecherom. K sozhaleniyu." You know, I don't think that Danya came to see you. Unfortunately.

Artyom hummed. "Anna."

Mila stared at him accusingly. "Ty uznal?" You knew? "I nichego ne skazal?" And didn't say anything?

"Mozhet byt'."

He wandered about the kitchen, towards the corner of the small room where two cabinets combined into one. He reached up past the top shelf and patted around blindly until his hand brushed a wicker basket, tucked just out of sight. Artyom had more than once caught Anna Evgenevna Segal balancing precariously on a stack of chairs in order to cache away something of value. "I mozhet byt'," he crowed triumphantly, "ya znayu, gde Anna pryachet shokolad." And maybe I know where Anna hides the chocolate.

Mila laughed and set about making tea properly, humming a sweet song under her breath. The storm outside gained momentum and hurled torrents of snow and ice through the wind and against the walls of the manor. It snatched away any trace of smoke from the fading embers in the study and sent the last remnants of evergreen aroma back throughout the room. On the bureau, the stopka laid untouched, filled to the brim, next to the file about children who will never be found.


Hadley Sallows knew he had already locked the door and latched the security chain the moment he had entered his flat, but the knowledge and memory of doing so was not enough. With trembling fingers, he twisted the metal latched, immediately meeting resistance that proved the lock was truly engaged. It did little to mollify the anxious paranoia seeded in his gut. A feverish gleam of sweat painted his face and had done since that afternoon no matter how often he ran the back of his hand across his brow. In all honesty, he had no recollection of how he made it back to his flat. Reason told him that he had walked all the way from the center of London, his feet making the journey instinctually, but the faces he must have seen, the cars he had to have dodged, the streets he crossed were lost to the abyss. That in itself was terrifying. Hadley never forgot specifics, lost track of the details.

He snatched up his mobile from the kitchen table. No matter how he had done it, he was home nonetheless, and he had to tell someone what he had seen. Two digits into the call, Hadley stopped. If he did ring the police, what would he say? I swear I'm not racist or whatever, but I think these Russians may be kidnappers. Why do I think this? Well, you see I was spying on them and saw something I shouldn't've. I think they might work for the KGB.

Hadley swore and drove the hard edge of the mobile into the bridge of his nose. "It isn't even the KGB anymore. Idiot."

He was so far out his depths that he might as well have been in the middle of the Atlantic. Whilst he had hunches and leads connecting one group to another, he had no physical evidence of wrongdoing. In fact, there hadn't been a real reason for why he had broken into the center in the first place. After his cousin had called him a couple months ago out of the blue and asked for a favor, Hadley had tried his hand at investigative journalism. After that, it hadn't been long for him to fall down the rabbit hole, discovering just how many kidnappings and disappearances there were in England alone. Zoya Arain, a mere eleven years old, was one among thousands, her case lost in a sea of higher priorities.

Hadley Sallows may have been more gifted at historical journalism, preferring to work with documents over people, agreeing to look into her disappearance had tumbled from his mouth before he had been able to stop himself. Not after Felix provided him with a picture of the little girl. The photograph hadn't been anything special—the young girl was on the shoulders of presumably her father, grinning so widely her cheeks must have burned from the strain—but she was so innocent and young, Hadley found himself incapable of saying no.

Her story was simple as well. The eleven-year-old had vanished one afternoon, having left an after-school program on her own, and had not been seen since. Hadley had promptly thrown himself into Interpol and Europol records, U.N. Surveys, and just about any BBC article that even mentioned missing children. He had even reached out to old university acquaintances for their contacts in the darker sides of the city. As it turned out, even most criminals didn't tolerate harm done to little kids.

Eventually, his ability to cross-reference came in handy, and all those hours spent comparing other disappearances to Arain's highlighted one similarity between at least three other case in the U.K. The day of the discovery, despite the enormous possibility of it being entirely coincidental, Hadley signed up as a volunteer on a whim. As it was just over two weeks from Christmas, they gladly accepted the extra hand. The employees were a bit strange, and at times overprotective of their systems, but after a first impression, none of them seemed the mass-kidnapping sort. Still, he stayed—because he had nowhere else to look. His guilt prevented him from giving up, threatening to drown him in shame, after having looked the little girl's mother in the eyes and saying he'd try. It didn't erase the fact that he was an academic and historian; he had no idea what came next if he ran out of leads.

Then, after a few days of gnawing away what was left of his fingernails, Hadley had stumbled across his first piece of evidence that suggested the organization was not as pristinely angelic as they seemed. He had originally intended, as a last-ditch attempt, to use one of the offices unsupervised, hoping that the upper-level rooms hid damning evidence. Although the employees were rather protective of computer use, they were pitifully lax in securing their passwords. More than once, Hadley had been able to glimpse his supervisor's keyboard when logging in, and he planned to use that to his benefit.

It hadn't quite gone to plan—

That night, as Hadley crept towards the back entrance of the community center, garbled, clamorous voices bounced off the cement walls of the car park and distracted him from his initial destination. He inched closer. The words grew clearer, although still quite loud and incoherent. It was only when he reached the gaping entrance that he understood why. It wasn't because his heart had been drumming so loudly in his ears that he'd lost the ability to hear, but that they weren't even in English. With an impressive number of vowels and impossible combinations of consonants, they never seemed to need to breathe whilst conversing.

Someone laughed thunderously just as another swore. Or at least, Hadley assumed he was swearing given the vehemence and force behind the word.

Hadley pressed himself tightly against the side of the garage wall and slid to the ground, peering around the edge to where he assumed the voices were coming from. He breathed shallowly, trying to disperse the cloud of condensation, unsure whether or not the white puff would be visible from this distance.

Hadley was confident that they were speaking Russian—he had written his dissertation on WWII codes and covert communications between all Allied countries, and so was able to identify that the language was Slavic at any rate. Gathering the courage to glance around the corner, he saw four men clustered around the company's white van, that was meant for transporting supplies to and from various events. Six-foot, broad shouldered, each one of them looked like they were straight from a set in Hollywood. Midnight ink burned black against their exposed skin. Russian mafia maybe? All four were so intimidating and daunting that Hadley instinctively sunk further to the ground and closed his eyes. They were definitely out of place, none of them embodying the selfless aura one would expect of the charity. Hadley grimaced; stigma and bias shame us all.

The four were gesturing wildly. One man, who looked straight out of a Bond movie, called out suddenly to someone out of view, "starik, opozdal! Ty chto, zaebalsya?"

Hadley ducked even lower, wincing as he lost his balance and rocked back into the cement wall. The car park entrance was bare and open, with absolutely nowhere to hide. Even if there were a conveniently located closet or wheeliebin, Hadley wouldn't have been able to move. His body was leaden, refusing his brain's signals to return to his feet.

"Poshel na zhopu, Vova." The response came from the ramp exitinig to the street, and a weight fell away from Hadley's chest. For now, at any rate.

He glanced around again in time to see one of the original Russians clap the newcomer on the back. The new man was similar to the other four—bulking shoulders, muscles straining against his clothes, short-trimmed hair—but unlike the others, he carried two massive black duffels across his back. He tossed them to the ground, just behind the back doors to the van, and joined in on the conversation seamlessly. They never once said a word in English, and the resounding nature of the garage garbled the foreign words beyond recognition so much so that if they did change languages, Hadley doubted he would have understood anyways.

The man closest to the van threw open the back doors, grasping the duffels' handles in order to throw it in, and Hadley caught sight of a distinct, black object wedged tightly in the back of the man's trousers. A hollow drumming rang in his ears.

A gun.

Eight other duffels, identically large, similarly ominous, were stacked along the floor of the compartment. Dozens of possibilities flashed through his mind, none of them good. Guns, drugs, money? It took all of Hadley's restraint not to swear aloud. What was he supposed to do now?

There was no reason for the center to have armed guards (a security officer with a baton, if that), and even less so for a group of armed men loading a van after hours. It was not enough to damn the organization, nothing to physically connect them to the disappearances, but Hadley's presence and investigation suddenly became a threat to whatever operation they were running. Still, he needed more. He took as many photos as he dared, unable to lean out and make sure they were even properly aimed and focused, and then he was stumbling back the way he'd come.

The next day Hadley slipped into a vacant office during his shift. He hadn't planned to, but as his supervisor rushed out for a mysterious meeting, the opportunity was irresistible and Hadley wanted to be done with this whole ordeal sooner rather than later. With one eye on the door, he sifted through any file that may be of use. The constant thrum coursing through his veins shook his fingers without end. For every letter typed, he had to erase two more, and Hadley was beginning to feel as if he were drowning. He longed for the library, for his office or flat. Anywhere but here.

He ran a quavering hand across his forehead. How long ago was it that had his supervisor stepped out? Hadley pulled up the listing for members and participants, charity locations, and afterschool programs and printed them. Although it was no smoking gun (and he would prefer that to remain a figurative gun where he was concerned), it would have to do. The police just needed plausibility. If this was Zoya Arain's last known location, it would give the investigator's somewhere new to start.

He was just taking the pages from the tray when the door to the office entered. Hadley flinched away from the desk as if he'd been shocked. He swallowed the weight in his throat.

"Hadley?" His supervisor sounded confused, angry. "What are you doing in here?"

"I—" He must have uttered some pitiful excuse and clenched the papers in his fist. He crushed them so tightly that, between the sweat blurring the letters and the creases imposed on the material, it would probably be illegible by the time he left. He shoved through his coworkers and the other volunteers wordlessly—not that he would've been able to choke out an excuse had he tried; only one man met his gaze and made to follow…One man whose face immediately was connected with a gun and four other threatening faces.

His flee through the city blurred into an incomprehensible memory of fear and adrenaline.

As soon as Hadley Sallows broke through his front door, the door locked, re-locked, and secured with a chair under the handle, he was close to heaving. The floor was swaying under his heals. An odd, off-kilter sensation sat behind his eyes and messed with his depth perception.

Hadley swore again. Without presence of mind, he moved throughout the flat, finding himself minutes later in front of the kettle, the stove already on, a mug sitting at the ready. The mobile was back in his hand—for the second or third time with the numbers 99 already cued on the screen.

He had his initial research, the photographs, proof that Zoya Arain and two other missing kids were involved in the programs, but what else could he offer?

A face with a murderous sneer and dead eyes flashed through his mind, always few steps behind for forever but then mysteriously gone a moment later.

Hadley felt the immediate need to check his locks. Again. His mobile slipped from his sweaty grasp, but the shattering thud barely registered as he traced his hand against the lock. The resistance held. He tugged the handle but couldn't open the door. Again, the lock held.

Hadley heard his breath shake but missed the soft hiss of the window gliding open.

He watched his fingers flex, slowly and fully in his control, but didn't see the flash of a shadow coming up behind him.

He smelled the musty paint of the front door, the paint that had been there for decades, but was oblivious to the crisp scent of the snow wafting in from outside.

All he felt was a sharp, fleeting pain right in the center of his spine. And then there was nothing.


Transliteration:

Артём Николаевич Жарков = Atryom Nikolayevich Zharkov

Стопка = stopka

цель оправдывает средтсва = tsel' opravdyvaet sredstva = the end justifies the means (often falsely attributed to Machiavelli; although he expressed the idea, the quote actually came from the Russian revolutionist/terrorist Sergei Nachaev (Сергей Начаев))

Тёма = Tyoma

Артёмочка, ты здесь? = Artyomochka, ty zdes'? = Are you in here?

Золотце, я думал, что ты заснула = Zolottse, ya dumal, chto ty zasnula = (lit. gold one) Sweetheart/honey/love, I thought you had gone to sleep

Я не могла спать = Ya ne mogla spat'. = I couldn't sleep.

Добрый вечер, Даня. Ты останешся на чай? = Dobryi vecher, Danya. Ty ostaneh'sya na chai? = Good evening, Danya. Will you stay for tea?

Простите, Людмила Кириловна. Я не могу. Мне пора = Prostitye, Ludmila Kirillovna. Ya nye mogu. Mnye pora. = I am sorry, Ludmila Kirillovna. I cannot

Почему вы говорили по-английски? О чём говорили? = Pochemu vy govorili po-angliiski? O chyom govorili = Why were you speaking in English? What were you talking about?

О деле. Ничего важного = O dele. Nyechego vazhnogo = Business. Nothing important at all.

Артёмка = Artyomka

Милочка = Milochka

Хочешь чай? = Khochesh' chai? = do you want tea?

В самоваре ещё должно остаться вода. = V samovare eschyo dolzhno ostat'sya voda. = there should still be some water left in the samovar

ковёр = kovyor

Слушай, я не думаю, что ты причина того, что Даня приехал севодня вечером. К сожалению. = Slushai, ya ne dumayu, chto ty prichina tovo, chto Danya priexal sevodnya vecherom. K sozhaleniyu. = You know, I don't think that Danya came to see you. Unfortunately.

Ты узнал? = Ty uznal? = You knew?

И может быть я знаю, где Анна прячет шоколод. = I mozhet byt', ya znayu, gdye Anna pryachet shokolad. = And maybe I know where Anna hides the chocolate.

старик, опоздал! ты что, заебался? = starik, opozdal! ty chto, zayebalsya? = dude (lit. old man), you're late! You fucked up (messed up, fucking tired, etc.), or what?


To clarify, most often, italics when in quotations or following quotations means that it is a foreign language. The italics at the beginning imply that Artyom and Danis are speaking in Russian. When Mila enters, she is therefore speaking Russian (the following italics are the translation in English).

This is meant to be a story in Anthony Horowitz's style, so the first chapter may seem slow, but it is setting up the master plot.

As a sort of disclaimer, I have studied a fair amount of Russian, but I am not natively fluent, so if there are mistakes, feel free to message me the edits. I am also American; I will try to keep up the British colloquialisms, but the spellings may vary (my computer does not recognize British spellings)

I plan to include a lot of Russian culture and language nuances (I will explain some in the context of the story) but if there are any aspects you don't understand or want to know about, let me know in the comments.
I absolutely love the language and culture, so I also mean to be respectful and accurate. I am coming from a foreign perspective, so if I make mistakes, also please let me know, and I will fix it.