Klim

You worked in a boutique on Nevsky Prospekt, selecting watches for those for whom price was no object. Today's client was one of those types: a security guard at the entrance, his gaze scanning the display cases like a rifle scope. Evi, your colleague, rushed toward him first—he didn't even turn his head.
“That one over there will serve you,” he nodded in your direction.
Evie returned to the counter, hiding her resentment. You sighed, straightened your jacket, and left. He waited. Silently.

— What kind of watch are you looking for?

— To stand out.

You led him to a separate display case. You pulled out a Patek Philippe Calatrava—a massive case and bracelet made of solid gold, a deep ocean blue dial, white hands like moonlight on water. Put it on.

He put them on. He paused, examining his wrist. The dark shirt, the strict lines—and suddenly this cold blue gleam. A smile touched his lips—not a polite one, but the kind that comes to people accustomed to having everything. He looked up at you, and something predatory flashed in his eyes, tenacious and dark.

"They are truly beautiful," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Just like you."