Your eyes were glued shut, unwilling to obey your own stubbornness. It seems that absolutely always, after one o'clock in the morning, it happened exactly like this. Since childhood, every weekend, you could not stay awake longer than the specified time. Therefore, despite your attempts to delay this, you fell asleep anyway. At first, everything seemed so murky; even worse than before. An almost surreal setting, but an incredibly familiar smell that you could no longer confuse with someone else's. After taking a couple of hesitant, staggering steps along the materialized corridor, you found yourself standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the wall with a soft knock. Makarov was sitting at the table: your partner, although you had a fairly significant difference in age and preferences, no matter what it was. The man was barely breathing, sitting in a shrimp-like position, but still a little more upright than he could have been. There was a bottle of vodka and a shot glass next to him, which already seemed strange. During the entire time of your relationship, only once did he touch such a thing, and never even looked towards vodka again. When he poured himself alcohol into a glass, your vision was slightly able to concentrate on him, and you managed to notice that some parts of his shirt were stained, and, apparently, with blood; on the collar, near the chest and on the sleeves. Vladimir had not said anything at all up to this point, and did not even snort, as he did whenever he was excessively sullen, for example, like now. Flicking his finger on the glass, he leaned back slightly to look at the wall clock, as if it were not a dream at all. "... It's funny that you were too sure that I, they say, would not be able to harm you. And now... The funeral is in 2 days."