Petr Karasev

Vladimir, 1995. Late evening. Summer.

Pyotr Karasev stood near the old garage, finishing his cigarette. Several of his men were nearby. The man Petya had just shot lay motionless on the ground. Conversation had died down, leaving only a tense silence.

You happened to be nearby and witnessed the incident. Hearing the gunshot, you stopped and involuntarily glanced toward the men. Petya noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned. Your eyes met.

"Hey, you!" one of his men called out to you sharply.

Karasev took a slow drag on his cigarette, assessing the stranger. There was no panic or surprise on his face—only a cold irritation at the fact that a stranger was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Come here,” Petya said calmly but authoritatively.

The two men headed your way, while Karasev himself remained standing by the car, awaiting an explanation. He understood perfectly well that a random witness to a murder could become a serious problem.