<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 90%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="color: #80BFFF">It is one thing to ignore the supernatural that has haunted you since childhood, it’s another the ignore the tangibly dangerous. The low roar of what Aleksandr at first mistakes for an explosion stops the street dead - the news will later incorrectly report it as a firebomb followed by the systematic execution of a number of known Grigorevich Vasilyev Bratva associates, Police suspect a meticulously organized hit by a large rival family. Had Aleksandr not happened to have been a mere fifty yards from Bratmil’s door when the shadowy figure darted inside - alone - he would not have thought to wonder otherwise. <br/><br/>Aleks should know better than to look into what could only be a crime scene when he reaches the bar door - his grandmother will box his ears for it later - but the compulsion to look despite the horror he has already witnessed through phantom echoes in his young life is difficult to ignore. He has seen blood before - ghosts of violent acts are rarely the spectral wraiths of movies, most are viscera and gore that stink and slip underfoot - but it is different knowing that this blood is here now. Aleksandr will have to wash this blood from his hands later from where he steadied himself against the spattered wall when greeted by the blown-open back of Bronislav’s shaved skull. Bronislav’s younger brother had been in Aleksandr’s year all through high school, they had worked together in the Kuznetsov’s family living room on a project for their history class. His mother came to Zorya Dostoevskii every month for a particular tea to help with migraines.  <br/><br/>Bronislav is not the only man here Aleks knows. Yuri is sprawled across the counter, eyes staring in opposite directions while his brains dry on bottles of liquor behind the bar. Yuri poured Aleks his first shot of vodka. He knows from the particular tattoo on a hand protruding from behind the bar that the man who owns the bar and restaurant - Mieczyslaw - is slumped out of sight. Aleksandr finally throws up when he realizes that though he recognises all these people, all but one - the Japanese man - he cannot remember all their names. He is still dry heaving when the police show up, though they are far from the first to arrive at the scene. <br/><br/>Aleksandr is asked questions about what he saw by a policeman with a notebook, he will not remember what was asked of him later. He gives a statement, but there are more than enough witnesses to clear him of any suspicion for the time being. A hysterical woman he recognises as Mieczslaw’s wife clings to another woman Aleks does not know, inconsolable. A harassed looking officer is trying to get her statement, understanding nothing through the broken sobs and heavy Polish accent. Eventually, Aleks is forgotten in the chaos and allowed go home. He gets to the first landing of twelve flights of stairs before a broad chest stops him from climbing any further. Mikhail lays a heavy hand on Aleksandr’s shoulder and his expression looks precisely how Aleks feels. <br/></span><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #40FFFF">“Аслан Григорьевич хотел бы знать , что вы видели сегодня , Александр.”</span></span> <span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">Aslan Grigorevich would like to know what you have seen today, Aleksandr.</span><br/><br/>Aleks has known Mikhail for many, many years. He considers Misha a good friend and he cannot remember the last time the man used his full name. Aleksandr leads the way to his apartment.<br/><br/>Aleks apartment is small, smaller still as a result of the many bookcases lining the walls stuffed full of fading volumes and wooden boxes, clusters of candles, vials, dried herbs and curious glass jars with disturbing contents. Aleks sinks into a lumpy armchair and Misha retrieves two glasses, opening kitchen cupboards til he finds a half empty bottle of cheap vodka Aleksandr did not know he had. Mikhail drops heavily into the ratty sofa and pours a generous swallow of vodka into each glass. They sit in silence for a time before Aleks takes his glass. <br/></span><br/><span style="color: #40FFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“наши братья.”</span></span> <span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">Our brothers.</span> Mikhail’s voice is hoarse. The two men do not clink their glasses together - bad luck when drinking for death - simply raise their cups in salute and throw the liquor back. The vodka burns its way down Aleks’ throat and stirs at the grief in his chest. </span><span style="color: #40FFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Вечная Память” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF">They intone together -<span style="font-style: italic"> ‘Let them be remembered forever’</span>. <br/></span><br/><span style="color: #BFBFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Мечислав собирался уйти в отставку в ближайшее время.” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">Mieczyslaw was going to retire soon</span>. Aleks says, staring without seeing at the coffee table. </span><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #BFBFFF">“Он хотел двигаться куда-то теплее.” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">He wanted to move somewhere warmer.</span> Mishka nods.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #40FFFF">“Я до сих пор должен ему деньги.”</span></span> <span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">I still owe him money</span>. He replied. The older man rubs a hand over his face and refills their glasses. They drink without speaking this time. </span><br/><br/><span style="color: #40FFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Вы видели.” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"> <span style="font-style: italic">You saw. </span>Mikhail’s tone is knowing. Aleksandr nods. </span><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #BFBFFF">“Да.”</span></span> <span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">Yes. </span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #40FFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Расскажи мне.”</span></span> <span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">Tell me. </span> <br/><br/>Aleksandr thinks. He sees Yuri’s staring eyes and knows he will carry them with him always. He remembers walking home from work.<br/><br/></span><br/><span style="color: #BFBFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Это был один человек. Он последовал за японцев в.” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">It was one man. He followed the Japanese in. </span></span><br/><span style="color: #40FFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“ыли ли другие?”  </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">Were there others?</span></span><br/><span style="color: #BFBFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Нет.”  </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">No.</span></span><br/><span style="color: #40FFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“То, что он похож?” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">What did he look like? </span></span><br/><span style="color: #BFBFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Тощий. Бледно. Много черного цвета.” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">Skinny. Pale. Lots of black.<br/></span></span><span style="color: #40FFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Его одежда?” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">His clothing?</span></span><br/><span style="color: #BFBFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Волосы тоже. С красным в нем.” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">His hair too. With red in it. </span> <br/><br/>Mikhail considers this for a moment. </span><span style="color: #40FFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Была ли это бомба?” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"> <span style="font-style: italic">Was it a bomb? </span><br/><br/>Aleks shook his head. </span><span style="color: #BFBFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Они не были ... там не было ожогов.” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">They weren't...there were no burns.</span> Misha nods, looking satisfied. Aleksandr wonders if the question was a test to make sure Aleks was telling the truth. The Bratva would have found a way by now to see the bodies.</span> <span style="color: #BFBFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Задняя часть их головы были взорваны открытыми, но я не слышал выстрелов.”</span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"> <span style="font-style: italic">The back of their heads were blown open but I didn't hear shots.</span> </span><br/><span style="color: #40FFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“фрагментация пули и глушитель , может быть.” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">Fragmentation bullets and a silencer, maybe. </span>Aleks doesn’t know enough about guns to argue, but he doesn’t think a typical gun could have produced the deafening roar he’d experienced. Something nags at him but in the turmoil and trauma it goes unnoticed. He didn’t see anything of the guy’s face, but he was relatively certain in saying it was not someone he knew.  </span><br/><br/><span style="color: #40FFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Алекси.”</span></span> <span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">Aleksi.</span><br/><br/>Mikhail watches him sharply now. </span><span style="color: #40FFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Вы видели ваши друзья там?” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">Did you see your friends there? </span>Aleks is surprised when he realizes Misha is not referring to their murdered friends. Mikhail had mocked superstition and the old beliefs as much as any of their group of friends growing up, it makes Aleksandr self conscious to see the shrewd knowledge on his old friend’s face. <br/>It is then that Aleks realises what has been troubling him about the hit. He saw the gunman, saw him enter and saw him leave. He did not see any spirits following him whatsoever. Someone who could execute five <span style="font-style: italic">Boyevik </span>of the Russkaya Mafiya in less than five minutes (plus two civilians) would be irresistible to the vast majority of spectres, let alone the souls of those whose murders they had actively been involved it. </span><br/><br/><span style="color: #BFBFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Нет.”</span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"> <span style="font-style: italic">No.</span><br/><br/>Mikhail refills their glasses for a third and final time, leaving the bottle empty. He passes Aleks his glass and lays a comforting hand on the younger man’s shoulder once more.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #40FFFF">“Мы их находим , Алексию.” </span></span><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">We will find them, Aleksi.</span> <br/><br/>They drink. <br/><br/>Mikhail stands and Aleksandr trails him to the door.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #40FFFF">“Аслан Григорьевич будет доволен. Я буду видеть вас снова в ближайшее время.”</span></span> <span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">Aslan Grigorevich will be pleased. I will see you again soon. </span>Aleks nods, it is only when Mishka shuts the door behind him that he collapses, boneless, against the wall. There is dried blood on his hands, but he knows he will need to go to see his grandmother tonight. He can afford himself this moment of weakness though, if nothing else.</span></span></span></div>