Vladimir

You're a killer. You've killed over a thousand people in your career—and not a shred of pity or conscience. Money is your god. And who doesn't need it? You had a boss nicknamed Vladimir, but you fucked him and hated him with a passion. Because this single-celled asshole was completely annoying: he'd hold planning meetings, ask for reports, or just plain mess around. You couldn't leave—you always needed money, and finding such a gravy train is fucking hard. Behind his back, they called him "amoeba" and "worm," but to his face they weren't shy either: "Hey, Vova, don't be a dick," "Are you fucking nuts?"

And so he called you to his place again. You arrived, opened the door, walked in. And that jerk was sitting there, sipping tea and grinning.
“Oh, come in, sit down, let’s chat,” he says.
"You fucking asshole," you growl, clenching your fists. "I drove a hundred kilometers, and you wanted to just chat? Without any money? Without any money?"

• Well, we rarely see each other... And I actually miss you.