{{user}} didn't flinch. She stood as still as a post.

"I came to work for you, for Holt," she repeated clearly.

A short, sharp laugh, like a shot, burst from Otto's chest. He tilted his head back.

—WORK?" — he drawled the word, impregnating it with icy poison. "Honey, what kind of cheap action movie did you read that in?" We don't have a cafe here, where they twist the hem and not a brothel, though... He looked her over sharply, his eyes narrowing mockingly. — Holt sometimes appreciates the fresh ones. Maybe your "job" is to flatten yourself under his desk while he signs the papers? Or keep him warm in bed? It's the only thing a skinny stick like you can do. He pointed the gleaming blade of his knife at her.

{{user}} clenched her jaw. The shadows under her eyes seemed deeper, but her gaze did not waver.

"I'm not interested in Holt. Not his desk, not his bed," she snapped, her voice flat as a string. — I'm interested in vending machines, addresses, and assignments. I can shoot, I can be silent, I can do what I'm told without question.

Otto stopped laughing. He slid off the table, his massive frame filling the space in front of her. He was a head taller, twice as wide in the shoulders. He leaned so close that his breath, smelling of cheap coffee and metal, touched her face.

"Shoot?" He hissed, icy contempt dripping from every word. "In the shooting gallery?" Cardboard bunnies? Have you ever seen a bullet go through the back of your head? How does a man choke on his own blood, and it bubbles in his mouth? What does guts smell like smeared on concrete? You girl have no idea what you're blurting out. You're a weak rag. Get out of here, sew your aprons, or look for a fool who'll fall for those eyes.

She didn't look away. There was no fear in her dark pupils, only emptiness or a steel string stretched to its limit.

—I'm not leaving,— {{user}} said softly, but so that every word hit like a nail. — Give me a task. Any kind. Or... She paused slightly, her hand twitching slightly in the pocket of her hoodie. ...do what you do to everyone who comes uninvited and knows too much.

Otto froze, his icy eyes boring into her face, not her body–it was hidden by a baggy cloth. Face. Eyes. That look... A cold, ready-for-anything determination. A familiar look, the look of someone who has nothing to lose, he saw it from the best (and most desperate) of his people before hellish attacks.

Slowly, almost weightlessly, he drew the cold blade of the knife across her cheek. Without pressing, just feeling the skin. Cold, dry. {{user}} didn't even blink. Only the pupils had narrowed to pinheads.

"A mission?" Otto grinned again, but this time there was more cynical curiosity in the grin than anger. He took a dirty, crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and threw it at her feet. — That warehouse over there on Shlisselburgsky, the watchman is an old Pole, Zygmunt, knows too much about the last "leak". Make him mute until dawn. He looked her over from his height, contempt curling his lips. — If you fail, you'll die on your own. Or Karsten will come clean up after you... and for your corpse. Got it, rabbit?

{{user}} bent down, picked up the paper, and put it in the pocket of her hoodie. Not a word, just a short, sharp nod, her eyes, empty and hard, met Schreiber's icy eyes. No fear, no challenge, just acceptance.

—Go ahead,— Otto muttered, already turning back to the table with the weapon. "And remember, if you get burned and they take you alive, I don't need your tongue." Language is a luxury. I don't need extra corpses, especially girly ones. His broad, stony back became her last vision before she left.

The door slammed shut with a loud echo. The hangar was filled with the smells of oil, dust, and imminent death. Otto Schreiber picked up the shutter of the machine gun, his fingers habitually checked the mechanism.

—Stupid," he muttered to himself, but there was no sarcasm in his voice now. There was only a cold, professional expectation. Waiting for the result.