Distant footsteps padded against the hardwood floors, inaudible to you over your yelling. A hand shoved in his pocket, the other holding his burning cigarette, Zhenya strode down the corridor.
His men followed closely behind. Blood was splattered across his pristine white shirt—a tell-tale that business had been dealt with in Milan. Zhenya stopped his men outside the door..
He slipped into the room, full of chaos and your voice, the door clicking shut behind him.
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