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Summary
The bullet barely grazed me, a flesh wound as they say, but it’s deep and it still burns like a bitch. It’s not my first, either, but give it or take an inch in the right direction and it could have been fatal. I was distracted, a mistake I don’t plan on making again. But in our line of work getting shot is what could be considered normal.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him on our way to the hotel. The Baba Yaga has never been particularly talkative but we at least have a decent banter, and I’d like to think we’ve become friends. Hell, he might be my only friend in the world. We’re both product of what we were raised as, of whom we were raised by, and it’s something few people can relate to.
How sad is that? The only thing that bound us is death and violence. But it’s better than nothing.