"Natasha, take a train. It's more safety."

Kirill was watching in confusion as she was preparing. In the morning, without makeup, disheveled, and now and then glancing at her phone, she was running around their apartment, once putting some things into a suitcase, then taking that stuff out. Kirill did not pay much attention to all these rags, those had a great deal of accumulated in the house.

"They fall headlong." Insisted Kirill. Just a day before he had read some news about a crash of Boeing. "Your father can wait. Think of Egor."

"My father may be patient." The woman said, answering a message on her phone as she ran. "His disease will not wait. Besides, Egor gets sick on trains."

"He will be fine on a train, he can suck lollipops, he will meet some neighbors. Listen to me, Natalya!"

"Don't raise your voice at me." The woman snapped, still running around the apartment.

He sat down painfully on an expensive sofa, knowing that he would not be able to convince his wife. His father-in-law had a heart attack yesterday. Ironically, or by a random chance, the heart attack was affected by the same news about the crash that Kirill was disturbed by.

"Two days on a train." His wife grumbled, putting away a dress. "Or six hours on a plane. You beggar!"

"You know where I put the money, it's for our son's future."

"Say that when he asks why he hasn't seen his grandfather." The shaggy-haired wife spat venom again as she closed the suitcase. "Call Egor, we leave in half an hour."

Kirill went to the balcony to call his son from a courtyard, and Natasha dived into the bathroom and turned on the shower. At the sight of the boys playing football, Kirill visibly brightened.

"Maybe they'll make it without incident." He muttered to himself. "People still fly."

Fuck, my head is cracking, a new thought immediately occurred to him, and he woke up.

A shabby room, hastily painted walls, a sagging mattress on a simple wooden bed, a table in the corner, and a gnawed stool. There was a rough-hewn wooden door, but it looked strong and had a good lock. Outside, the sun was hot.

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Curtains? Kirill thought, squinting against the sun. Really, fuck the curtains. Shit.

He sat up on an elbow, but the pain in his head brought him back. Trying not to moan in pain, he tried to remember why he was in such a strange place.

Am I in some lousy hotel or something? How much did I drink?

At that moment, there was a knock on the door.

"Who's there?" Kirill asked, or rather groaned.

"You ordered a breakfast by noon." An empty voice said from the other side of the door. "Master has prepared everything, but he asked you to remind him of your agreement. Can I come in?"

"Agreement?" Kirill asked, not hurrying to let the stranger in.

Breakfast is good, some headeache pills would be better.

"Yes, come in." He said, checking for clothing.

Not naked, that's good.

The door opened and the waitress came in with a tray. On the tray was a bowl of something hot and an earthenware mug. The woman went to a table in the corner, set down the tray, and turned to Kirill.

"Master asked me to remind you of your promise to help him with this place." The waitress explained, and Kirill began to recall the events of the previous night. "Master also asked me to tell you he has prepared a potion for your headache. He said he only cooperates with you because his busyness have been going badly lately."

She said this in a dry, lifeless tone, and there was such an emptiness in her eyes that Cyril felt sorry for her. He remembered his wife, the gleam in her eyes, her eagerness to live, and her constant haste...

Damned haste, he thought, fully awake. I was hoping this was just a dream.

"Thank you." He said to the woman. "You can come out. Or don't come out. As you want. I don't give a shit. Give me the brew, save my head."

The waitress looked at the door, then at Cyril, then back at the door and went to close it. Then she returned to the table, picked up the mug, and held it up to Cyril. He sat on the edge of the bed, massaging his head, and accepted the mug as the woman approached. The mug smelled of herbs and something tart. The bright smell hit him sharply, clearing his mind almost instantly.

"Listen," he said, taking the first sip. "I don't understand why you're so down. You're a beautiful woman, you have a good figure, but why are you so empty?"

She stood beside him, confused, but not moving away. In fact, she hadn't had a man in a very long time, and the idea of sleeping with a stranger came to her mind more and more often. The bar's patrons gave her unmistakable hints every night, but she was stopped by the simple fact that none of them were strangers.

"What should I be like?" She asked softly. "Do you want me to be alive? Do you want me to dance? Just please help the owner. You didn't lie about being able to help, did you?"

Cyril drank half a cup and felt much better. Memory returned, and pain did so. Pain from the loss of the most valuable thing in his life, and a burning resentment at the evil fate that turned Kirill into an invulnerable monster.

But maybe, after all, vulnerable? He thought, not listening to the woman. The eye is throbbing, probably there is a black eye after the bullet. So there is hope. I just need to find a weapon strong enough to break through my armor. Did the herbalist talk about wild animals? I hope local bears are scarier than bullets.

"Did you say something?" He looked up. The woman was still standing in front of him, awkwardly touching the hem of her short, not very fresh dress.

"I told you..." She began, but he cut her off.

"To help the boss. No problem. Dance? Well, dance. And give me a blowjob, it helps with a hangover. But quickly, because I still have to go to the woods."

"Into the woods?" The woman asked, starting a tasteless dance. "The forest is dangerous, there are wild animals there. Please don't go, help us here."

"I despise danger, baby." He said in a deliberately playful tone. "Stop dancing, come here."

With that, he tossed the empty mug under the table, knocking over a gnawed stool, and pulled down his pants. The stench of his sweaty crotch was evident from the week's drinking, but nothing bothered him any more. Even how easy this empty woman agreed.