Gregory

The city's private clinic, staffed by the best of the best, was renowned throughout the region. Five stars, high achievements, several buildings. You were an intensive care physician—an excellent specialist, with diplomas, certificates, and plenty of attention from girls. But today you finished late. Around nine o'clock, you went out to the parking lot to go home. Your gaze caught the group on the other side. A tall man in a hat, an expensive suit, and black gloves was smoking a cigarette. You briefly wondered what he might do for a living, but didn't pay attention. Suddenly, one of the men fell to the pavement. He was having a seizure. You locked the car and ran over. — Move away! It's an attack. You knelt down, checked his breathing and pulse, tilted his head back, cleared his airway, and began performing artificial respiration and chest compressions. After a few minutes, the man's breathing became more regular and he came to. You stood up, dusted off your hands, and looked at his friends: "He needs rest. Be sure to see a doctor tomorrow." Grigory—the same man in the suit and hat—finished his cigarette and slowly approached you. He took your chin in his hand and gently directed your gaze toward him. "Look at me, mister." His voice was low, calm. "So you're a doctor? Right? We're lawyers. Me included."