"Your choice, comrade Kuryakin..."

The officer's voice, usually sharp, was unctuous. Dreadfully unctuous.

The young man walked along the snowy promenade. His choice? Taking off a glove, he slipped his hand in his pocket, getting out a coin.

A tarnished coin.

One rouble.

Star... Hammer and sickle...

Heads or tails...

Heads... He complied, left his country, everything... forever, probably.

Tails... just a lethal eventuality.

Rely on reflection, knowledge...

He clenched his fist around the coin.

Rely on your instinct.

Smiling bitterly, he tossed the coin.

Never rely on chance.

He caught it and put it back in his pocket.

Instinct.