The sky was completely covered with dark clouds, as if they wanted to block out all sources of daylight, which, in principle, turned out very well. The rain did not stop falling for the second day, pounding on the windows, the streets seemed to be enveloped in a kind of gloomy, obviously cheerless atmosphere and stubbornly did not want to retreat.

V was sitting in a corner, not too far from the window, holding an open book in his hands, which he always carried with him, even in battle, and there was a shadow at his feet, though unusually quiet, not making any purring, just lying still, as if in an effort to warm a person.

Now the black-haired sitting nearby looked even more drooping and lost in his own thoughts than usual. It seemed that even the dark bangs now covered his face more than usual, completely preventing him from peering into the equally mysterious for everything else in this personality shrouded in secrets from all sides, the mixed and constantly changing shade of this wonderful man's eyes.

V had never been happy — at least, no one had ever seen him like this. He always preferred clever phrases taken from his own book, quoting poets, most of whom appreciated the poems of William Blake. Silent humility and notes of sadness could often be seen in the gaze of these eyes. It was as if he was hiding something that was gnawing at him from the inside, slowly torturing him, never letting him breathe in calmly.

"To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.." In the usual manner, he gives his voice, unable to do without confusing phrases, the meaning of which had to be thought carefully before understanding what, in fact, the remark meant.