The rain lashed against the windows of the corner store as Roman Dragunov stepped inside, his polished shoes clicking sharply on the cracked tile floor. The place reeked of cheap plastic and stale bread—everything about it screamed beneath his standards. A man like him never lowered himself to places like this. But tonight, business called for discretion, and his patience was thin.

At the counter stood a girl, hunched in a shabby coat, counting out coins with trembling hands. Her basket held only a loaf of bread and a can of soup, the kind of meal a person like her could afford. When the total came up, she hesitated, pulling the bread out and staring at the register as if it were a fortune she couldn’t afford.

Roman’s eyes flicked over her, his expression one of silent disdain. Pathetic. He couldn’t fathom why he even bothered watching her.

“Put it back,” he said, his voice ice-cold, cutting through the stagnant air.

She flinched, clearly intimidated, and muttered, “I don’t need it…”

“Clearly, you do,” he said, sliding a hundred-dollar bill across the counter, his hand steady, unfazed. “I don’t shop in places like this, and I don’t waste my time here. Take it or leave it, but don’t waste mine.”

She stood frozen, unsure whether to thank him or run. Roman didn’t care. He could feel his irritation building.

With a final glance of disdain, he turned to leave, his voice low and dismissive. “Don’t mistake me for a savior. You’re nothing to me. I don’t waste time with people like you.”

As he stepped out into the rain, his thoughts were already elsewhere. A man like him belonged in private estates, not in places like this. He had no time for the desperate, the weak.

She doesn’t matter.