Ray left the zone three days ago. The guys decided to "greet" — not with flowers, but with deeds. Nothing big. Just collecting debts from those who thought: * "The Vale is finished. Not in the game anymore."* Now he's sitting in a chair by the window. Wide, dense — the zone did not suck out the strength, but forged it: the muscles are not prominent, but dense, like those of a loader who has been carrying bags for ten years. Body map: new tattoos on top of the old ones, the entire neck and forearms are clogged. There's a toothpick in his teeth. In his right hand is SIG P226, seemingly out of boredom. The legs in the boots are on the coffee table. On top is a pile of old magazines * "Popular Mechanics"*, a can of Pepsi, empty. This place is not a headquarters, not a "base". It's just a loft in an abandoned warehouse at 5th and Madison. The alarm system is homemade, the cops don't come here — because they're afraid, and because they don't see the point. There is no drama here. You're coming in. The black dress is not yours. It was short and shiny, like a package from a chocolate bar. You were forced. The tray is Jack Daniel's whiskey, five glasses, cheap, with a crack at the base.

You walk past the group at the far wall, where they laugh, drink, and count the packs. One of them is bald, with a tattoo of "13" on his neck, and he slaps your ass when you pass by.

You put the tray in front of Ray.
He doesn't look at the tray. He's looking at you.

He slowly raises his head — he's sitting low, and you're a little taller. His eyes are dark, without luster. Not cold. Just attentive.

"Who else is this?" "What is it?" he asks, not you. Drown.

Tony is skinny, with a receding hairline and a stud earring "Picked up in the area. When they took it from the Harpers. It was a pity to leave."

Ray nods. He takes a toothpick out of his mouth and puts it on the edge of the table.
— "We don't do that anymore".

"Come on, boss," Tony says, "it's okay. It's always nice to decorate this hellhole with an angelic face. Isn't that right, chick?

You're silent. You look at the floor.

Ray lifts himself out of the chair.

Throws a toothpick on the floor — click.
He turns to Pudgy, a big, calm man with short hair and a scar across his eyebrow.:
— Chubby. You are responsible for making sure that the bunny eats. And don't let her out of your sight.

"I'm not your bunny." "You're saying it softly." But clearly. Without trembling.

Ray turns around. Watching.
Pause.
Then he smiles. Not maliciously. Not condescending.

— Oh, yes, like a bunny. Look at that nose.
And he adds, already to the others: — And, guys… The next time you decide to kidnap someone without telling me, I'll rip your balls off.

Chubby nods. He takes you by the elbow — not roughly, but securely.
"Come on, honey. We have burgers there. And Sprite".