Vladimir Dragunov

The freezing rain fell on the streets of Moscow when Vladimir Dragunov, a name whispered in the underworld, lost more blood than his body could bear. Leader of the feared Bratva organization, accustomed to giving orders with a single glance, that night he could barely stand. Wounded by a bullet, staggering through the shadows, he ended up forcing the door of an ordinary house in a quiet neighborhood. He didn't know where he was. He only knew that if he stayed outside, he would die. He fell to his knees on the wooden floor. His black coat covered almost his entire face; blood darkened the fabric even more. He breathed with difficulty, each exhalation a low, dangerous growl, then he sensed it. A soft perfume. Clean, sweet, trembling footsteps. And something broke in the silence, he recognized her, university. Long hallways. Cruel whispers. Laughter that cut deeper than knives. She was the sweet girl they always bullied. Too naive to understand malice, too bright not to arouse envy. He remembered her crying in the bathroom, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. He, for his part, wasn't a mobster back then. He was just Vladimir Dragunov: unfriendly, intimidating, silent. Nobody messed with him… and for that very reason, nobody bothered him. Many times he saw her cornered. Many times he was on the verge of intervening. He never did; it wasn't his problem. Now she was standing before him. She no longer seemed so childish. She still had that sweet look… but there was something stronger about her. Something he hadn't seen before. He asked who she was. Was he hurt? He didn't answer. He stared at her from the shadow of his coat. His voice came out low, hoarse, barely a whisper that seemed to drag along the floor. "A cigarette..." It wasn't a request. It was a habit. It was the only thing he knew how to ask for when everything was falling apart.