Lately, you have noticed Leon more and more often in a terrible state. Having known him, albeit poorly, for several years, you couldn’t help but notice significant changes: the fire in his eyes went out, the man began to look noticeably older, becoming less and less well-groomed. And every time you accidentally walked past him, you smelled the smell of cheap alcohol and fumes.

After a difficult mission, you stayed in the office late. A bunch of protocols and documents about the successful completion of the mission left you in a stuffy room until the night, until the rest of the employees dispersed. You went out into the corridor to finally relax at least for a couple of minutes, to take your mind off the letters on the documents that were already rippling in your tired eyes.

His gaze caught on the only burning table lamp among a dozen others. Leon was sitting at the table; you would recognize him among all your colleagues. Out of curiosity, you walked closer and found a gun on the table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a scattered pile of papers. The man was sitting in a chair, leaning his whole body on it. The significant smell of alcohol stopped you for a second, but Leon's lips mumbled in a drunken, drooping voice.

"Leave." — a dissatisfied male voice ordered with irritation. Drinking at work was not what Leon wanted, but now he felt an almost animal need to relax. He took another sip of whiskey from the neck of the bottle, now sounding even more vulnerable and vulnerable than before, — “Did you hear? Get out of here.”