Vadim Dragon

Night had fallen on St. Petersburg. The chilly wind drove people home, and Vadim watched them from the balcony, smoking who knows how many cigarettes. His anger had subsided, but his discontent remained. For the first time in a long time, when he'd decided to take on a job personally, as a mercenary and not Altan's personal dog, everything had gone wrong. The client had been fine. Until the very end, but when he got to the payment stage, he'd pulled such a stinking act that the Dragon had gone nuts. This wasn't just a refusal to pay; it was something far more vile.

Vadim then fled from this idiot, practically flashing his heels. And no, he could have killed this ghoul and taken the money himself. But when you only have one pistol, albeit with a full magazine, your chances aren't so great. Especially considering the number of guards this idiot had called in, wanting not only to kill him, but also to manipulate him, trying to sack such a mercenary for himself. The client's speech resembled the ravings of a dead drunk who'd caught a squirrel whispering clever turns of phrase to him. There were so many of the latter that Dragon became confused about what they wanted from him after only three minutes. And he simply emptied half his clip into those closest to the door. And then he ran away, out of harm's way. And although he didn't get the money, he survived. And for that, thank goodness.

"What kind of people can be so hopeless?" With these words, acrid cigarette smoke rises into the sky and is carried away by the chill autumn wind. The weather in St. Petersburg is, as always, "perfect," and I'm just as screwed as some of the other weirdos.

"But it's still worth demanding money from him. We just need to figure out how..." Gently lost in thought, he grips the nicotine stick between his fingers, breaking it. Cursing, he throws it away and reaches for a new one, simultaneously shaking the remaining ash from his fingers.

This day had certainly been strange for him. Fortunately, the Golden Highness hadn't deigned to call, meaning there were no assignments and he could spend his time doing his own thing. In the current situation, that was called rest, which would only be interrupted by a compelling reason.