Petrograd. 1917 Sept. The revolver fired, and Cyril recoiled. A flash lit up the cobblestone pavement for a moment, a booming echo strolled down the alley. The bullet hit Kirill at the feet and went into the sky ricocheting, disgusting, squealing nasty. The chill snaked down the ridge. Simay, vashbrod, overcoat! - siplo commanded a drunken sailor. - Well?! "Nagan" danced in his hand. Having relieved his fear, Kirill Avinov felt disgust (from the "brother" he carried moonshine and garlic) and fierce hatred. He hated everything in this man - and his unthinkable pincers, and pea wide open, and a vest, yellow from sweat, and a famously broken visor.