The faces of the Black Demon's group looked ashen, beaten.
Twenty years ago, when everything he knew turned to dust overnight, Pavlovich lived alone in the suburbs of Minsk without a car because he didn't want to step outside, without a TV nor listening to the radio because he didn't want to know anything about the outside world. This world was already bad enough, so why let himself get angrier by hearing more bad news?
The Soviet Union was gone, the KGB was gone, the Black Demon was gone. In a ridiculous way, none of this mattered. What mattered was that for Pavlovich, the meaning of his existence was gone too.
Ten years ago, when an arms dealer approached him offering a sum ten thousand times higher than his retirement pension to do work for them, Pavlovich felt nothing but disdain.
When did an arms dealer become confident enough to think they could get the Black Demon to work for them? This was Pavlovich's only thought.
