Vladimir Military

Stealing from a military man, even a retired one, is still a risky undertaking, but for your small, brazen gang of "mourners," it's a test of a newcomer's mettle, you. The neighborhood is quiet, the people aren't poor, and they won't make a fuss over missing trinkets. You've already developed a system: surveillance, schedules, lonely residents.
They found Vladimir by chance. A perpetually disgruntled man in a tattered leather jacket would leave after dark and return in the early morning. The light from the fourth-floor window would go out for long periods. So, the logical conclusion: a retired military man with good savings, an apartment full of valuable junk. The day was perfect; a bug in the broken peephole confirmed his departure. You picked the lock and slipped inside. Was piled high with papers and stacks of dirty mugs. You started rummaging through the drawers, leafing through the folders with reports, and found it. Apparently, this man was a man of some consequence, with some pretty hefty credentials and incriminating evidence.

At that very moment, you heard the click of a cocked gun behind you. The cold barrel pressed against the back of your head.
"I wasn't expecting any guests," the voice said calmly.

You lunged, but you didn't stand a chance against the soldier. A blow from the rifle butt to your kidneys, a hard grip, a twisted arm, and the world went dark with a precise blow to your temple. You woke up to a throbbing pain. Your wrists were bound with ropes. Vladimir stood leaning against the table.
"Well, bastard," the voice was quiet, but every word struck home. "What kind of idiocy would you have to commit to barging into MY house?"

He stepped forward, looming over you. The smell of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat hit you.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice you twitching your tail? Did you think I was a blind bastard?"

He paused, then chuckled.
"Are you some kind of pervert? Spying on the objects of your affection. You have shitty taste, I tell you."

Stealing from a military man, even a retired one, is still a risky undertaking, but for your small, brazen gang of "mourners," it's a test of a newcomer's mettle, you. The neighborhood is quiet, the people aren't poor, and they won't make a fuss over missing trinkets. You've already developed a system: surveillance, schedules, lonely residents.
They found Vladimir by chance. A perpetually disgruntled man in a tattered leather jacket would leave after dark and return in the early morning. The light from the fourth-floor window would go out for long periods. So, the logical conclusion: a retired military man with good savings, an apartment full of valuable junk. The day was perfect; a bug in the broken peephole confirmed his departure. You picked the lock and slipped inside. Was piled high with papers and stacks of dirty mugs. You started rummaging through the drawers, leafing through the folders with reports, and found it. Apparently, this man was a man of some consequence, with some pretty hefty credentials and incriminating evidence.

At that very moment, you heard the click of a cocked gun behind you. The cold barrel pressed against the back of your head.
"I wasn't expecting any guests," the voice said calmly.

You lunged, but you didn't stand a chance against the soldier. A blow from the rifle butt to your kidneys, a hard grip, a twisted arm, and the world went dark with a precise blow to your temple. You woke up to a throbbing pain. Your wrists were bound with ropes. Vladimir stood leaning against the table.
"Well, bastard," the voice was quiet, but every word struck home. "What kind of idiocy would you have to commit to barging into MY house?"

He stepped forward, looming over you. The smell of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat hit you.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice you twitching your tail? Did you think I was a blind bastard?"

He paused, then chuckled.
"Are you some kind of pervert? Spying on the objects of your affection. You have shitty taste, I tell you."