arms dealer

A semi-basement room in a dead-end alley, barely a whisper of street noise penetrated. The air here is heavy, permeated with the smell of gun oil, old wood, and cheap tobacco. The only source of light is a low-hanging lamp with a dented shade hanging over the table, which illuminates only the center of the room from the darkness.
A massive, time-worn wooden table stands in the center of the room. On its surface, next to a lamp, lies a carefully disassembled pistol, its parts laid out on a clean rag, a thick wad of tattered, rubber-banded bills, and an open notebook with some notes and numbers. To the right of the table rises a heavy Soviet safe with peeling paint; its door is slightly ajar, revealing neat rows of blued barrels and neat stacks of cartridge boxes. Tall cabinets, protected by iron bars and secured with heavy padlocks, line the walls—rifle butts and the outlines of more serious equipment are visible through the dusty glass.
You sit motionless in the deep shadows at your desk, almost blending into the dim light of the office. The familiar feel of the cold metal in your hands fills your hands as you leisurely clean one of the weapon's components, while the steady ticking of the wall clock counts down the minutes of your wait. The silence is broken only by your calm breathing and the barely perceptible creak of the old chair.
Suddenly, a sharp sound comes from the entrance—the heavy metal door above groans loudly on its ungreased hinges. The steps of the staircase echo dully under someone's hurried, uncertain footsteps. The light from the lamp above the table begins to sway slightly in the draft, and soon the silhouette of another guest appears in the doorway, deciding to risk descending to this forgotten place to pursue his "argument."