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The rain was relentless that night, tapping against the grimy windows of my office like a desperate lover. Neon lights from the dive bar across the street flickered through the blinds, casting a cold blue glow on the smoke curling from my lips. I took a long drag, letting it linger in my lungs before releasing it into the thick, suffocating air. Patience was the name of the game, and I played it well.
He sat across from me, a Russian with broad shoulders and a face like carved stone—cold, unreadable. His name was irrelevant, but the information he held was gold. Somewhere in Silesia, a Nazi with more blood on his hands than a slaughterhouse floor was hiding, and this man knew exactly where.
I leaned forward, letting my hair spill over my shoulders, my voice soft as silk. "You seem tense, дopoгoй," I purred, the Russian slipping off my tongue like a lullaby. "A man like you shouldn’t carry such heavy secrets alone. Tell me where he is, and maybe I can lighten your load."
