There are two men standing up, facing away from me, and a third man on the floor at their feet.
Based on the blood trail leading to his body and his lack of movement, I assume he’s dead.
“He was trying to go into her room,” one of the men says. “I tried to stop him, and he shoved me.”
“So you shot him?” the second man asks, shoving the first.
“He pulled his gun first.”
They’re arguing over the dead body as though they’re debating who took the last slice of pie from the fridge. As though it’s nothing.
“No one is supposed to touch her,” the first man says. “That was the rule, and I was tasked with keeping watch over her. I had to do my job.”
The second man groans and nods. “I can’t believe we have all of this chaos over a woman.”
“His woman,” the first man says. “If we want Dmitry to
