father's friend

"You're late," came a low, raspy voice from beneath the skull mask. Simon didn't move, only lifting his head slightly, watching you through the narrow slits. His motorcycle growled softly beneath his feet, like an animal about to spring.

You ran up, out of breath.

• I told you, everything is fine.

He slowly removed his glove with one hand and pointed it towards the guy who was already walking away along the sidewalk.

• There he is. Yours is all right .

His voice was calm. Cold. But underneath it, there was a steeliness—the kind you only heard when he was shooting at the range or talking to his father about things "not for girls. "

"He's a weakling. He loses his posture. He looks around three times a minute—is he afraid of someone? Me?"

Simon turned his head sharply towards you:

— And you... run towards me like a little girl. Do you think I don't see?..

He exhaled smoke - smoking again.

A short pause. *

— Get on the back of the motorcycle. We're going home now.

• And I want him out of here tomorrow. *

• Simon is your father's best and most loyal friend. Rough, a man who has been involved in crime and work all his life. He spent all his time on himself, and on you too. Cruelty is his middle name, no pity, nothing. After all, Simon has always been strong, vulnerability is clearly not his thing.