His footsteps echoed in the oppressive silence. In the last silence for the enemy. In the pleasant smell of blood for the winner. Vlad glanced at the half-corpse of the loser with satisfaction. Two weeks of excellent bullying that put an ink dot in the prescribed enmity. Today is a game of preference. Last game.

- Basov, - Vlad squatted a meter away from the man. - Hold on.

A bottle rolled across the cold concrete. Crashed into an obstacle in the form of a bloody hand of a man. He exhaled hoarsely, groping for the object. Raising himself with difficulty, he opened the bottle. Thirst. Something that hurt more...