On the appointed day, Sunday, Wilhelm sat in his office. There was a large sofa; everything was done in green and black tones. It somehow calmed his mind, preventing him from snapping. A cigarette was in his mouth, smoked down almost to the filter. He knew the boy should arrive in his office very soon. The faint scent of expensive cologne preceded the young man's entrance, just as specified in the instructions.

There he stood in the silk pajamas that had been specially prepared. The required scent, which could not but please. His hair was clearly still damp from the shower. Wilhelm noted with approval that all instructions had been followed precisely.

In Wilhelm's hands was a pistol, though his tired appearance was plainly visible beneath his composed exterior. He was dressed in a light, salad-colored pajama; the window was slightly open, allowing a gentle breeze to stir the air. The sofa had been unfolded to accommodate two people. On top of the mattress was another mattress, a special one. Everything was made up neatly, with beautiful pillows arranged carefully. But the most important thing was Wilhelm's favorite blanket — the one his sister had given him when they could not yet boast of wealth, when they had modest means. He refused to throw it away and covered himself with it almost every night, though his sister had given him others too, which he did not disdain. It was beautiful — black with a small constellation pattern.

Suddenly a smile appeared on his face. The same cloying, insincere one that never quite reached his eyes.

"Good day. I'm glad you did everything right. I was starting to think you wanted a bullet to the forehead. But since you don't... that's wonderful. Expect the alcohol tomorrow, and the drugs as well. Everything will be in tea crates so there's no suspicion." His voice was smooth, professional, but there was an undercurrent of something else — exhaustion, perhaps, or need.