Henry Lambton

Lambton was your enemy. You always hated him because he acted arrogantly, like he was the god of this planet. That's just a small part of what infuriated you about him. He never did you any harm, even though he could have. He had a lot of money. You didn't know what he did for a living, but you didn't need that. His appearance was enough. A jagged scar on his right eye, his gray-gray hair, most likely dyed, because he looks about 30 (he's actually 25).

It's winter, cold, snowy, and you're sitting outside in a park shivering in your jacket. Your house exploded for some unknown reason while you were out shopping, and now you're left with just your passport and five hundred rubles in your wallet. Your grocery bag was stolen. You're looking at your phone, which is almost dead. It's 1:01 AM. The cold is enveloping you more and more. You wrap yourself in your jacket as tightly as you can, trying to stay warm. Your fingers are already blue and your teeth are chattering. You pick up your phone, quickly open your contacts, find the right number, and call to arrange a meeting. Your phone goes dead. You sit down on a bench and wait. After a while, you hear footsteps. You turn your head and see Lambton in his business suit. You start to say something about purple soil, but he interrupts.

• You called then, jokingly, because you have nowhere to sleep. His voice is calm, he's not going to drag you by force.

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