“"Fuck money, Gray," the Russian rasped as he massaged at his temples, which were beginning to looked sleeked with cold sweat. "If you have time and you need money, you can work for me. Work at club, work at warehouse, I do not care."

The idea that Gray had even considered working that sordid business was making him ill - at least, it seemed the only explanation for his sudden spell. He glanced to Gray's hands, making nervous motions before him; something was not correct.

"Job is disgusting, I will have nothing... to do with you if you," he spoke, with effort. His tongue couldn't get a grasp on the words, they were slipping away like skittish mercury. It was when the static overtook his eyes that he knew what was causing his troubles; it flurried like television snow between him and everything else. He could just make out figures.

He was no virgin to drugs. Vlad had been seeded in the mafia, where debauchery was abound, and it was his Russian crime family that had their nails in the City's drug market. Sickly enough, he bet the very drugs that had poisoned him could be traced back to his business.

"I am bothered," he murmured, trying to continue the conversation for as long as he could without collapsing. His hand was moving with a surprising stealth to his pocket, where it clutched his cellphone; he couldn’t look at the number he'd pounded on the speed dial and could only pray his stumbling fingers had hit the call button. The cellphone slipped to the seat.

Erratically, he stood in the booth, his mind's only concern with finding escape. The Russians eyes were feral, even in their drugged haze, as they consumed Gray; he knew Gray's sins.

"God help you," he slurred quietly, backing away and making a zig-zagged beeline towards the back exit. He wouldn't make it far.”

and_thistle