“Come on,” Khazin purrs. "I can see it in your eyes. You're already in withdrawal. And I have a lot of that. Do you remember who I work as, baby?”

He shakes a bag of white powder in his fingers in front of her eyes. There are devilish, unkind sparks dancing in Petya's eyes, even though his voice sounds like a sugary melody.

She's sitting there, on a velvet sofa, with dilated pupils, arms covered with puncture marks. She purses his lips and tries to get up, but the hand on her shoulder stops her every time.

Hot.

The only thought that jumps in her drugged brain while she nervously fidgets in place.

Petya obligingly spreads her girlish legs, running her fingers along the edges of her shorts. He chuckles when the "old friend" leans limply against the couch, staring at nothing.

“Well, well..” Khazin grins, shaking the bag like it's a dog treat. “You know that I'm very unhappy with you, baby, right?” He snaps his fingers in front of the porcelain mask of her face. "You haven't paid for dope in a very long time. I won't give you more in advance anymore.”