Disclaimer: Character property of Universal.
There were three dents in the steel safety door of 421D, all from a 9mm semiautomatic. Kirill considered this fortunate. So far, they had only gotten three bullets into his door.
He fumbled through his pockets, trying to remember where he'd put his keys. They were usually in his right hip pocket, always the same place so he would be able to retrieve them instantly. But he had forgotten today.
Kirill was becoming angry. Mostly with himself. The last job had been two weeks ago and it had gone down perfectly. Yevgeny was dead, and Khorishko had the contents of the safe from Tevrishev Securities, Inc. in his grateful possession. The client was happy, Kirill was paid, and that constituted, in his mind, a job well done and an excuse for a holiday.
Kirill muttered a curse and readjusted the paper bag to a more secure position under his arm, patting his coat and hoping to hell he wouldn't have to go back outside in the sludge for his keys. This was sloppy. He was getting slow and careless and that was a bad idea in his business. Men got killed when they got sloppy. Men got killed when they lost their keys and had to stand outside their doors, backs to the stairs and head fuzzy from alcohol.
Grumbling under his breath, he finally located the keys. He was about to insert it into the lock when he remembered to check the safeguards. Before he left, he'd rubbed a smear of wax over the keyhole. If anyone had tampered with it, he'd know.
No, the seal was still intact. Clutching the paper bag again, he went into his apartment.
Moscow is one of the most expensive cities in Europe. Flats like this weren't cheap, but by the standards of other cities, it wasn't much to look at. Three rooms, linoleum, gray walls, two windows. Kirill always chose apartments on the third story. Any lower and it was too easy for anyone to break into. Any higher and jumping out the window was risky. It was an all right place, but he still wished for the old place in Munich.
He threw the keys on a table next to the sofa, then made the rounds. There were no closets in his flat, so he only had to stick his head into the bedroom and bathroom to check for intruders. No one today.
Kirill sagged onto the sofa and closed his eyes. Two weeks. Yuri said he would have another two off before he needed him. He was halfway through his holiday and already he was slipping up. He knew he should be more careful. He knew he should care more. But somehow, he didn't.
He turned the television on and left it on the same station, volume turned down so low it was just faint murmurs and warm, flashing lights. He stared at it for a while, eyes unfocused, while he thought about the Tevrishev job. He'd gotten paid, so it was good. He'd killed a man, so he needed the paper bag today.
He pulled the bottle from the bag and unscrewed the cap. He could afford better stuff, but he bought the cheap stuff because he was used to it. After a while, he couldn't taste it anyway.
In two weeks, he would have to sober up. Slow the consumption of alcohol until he could hold a gun straight again. Then back to business. Business was hard. He took a swig from the bottle.
"You took my car, you fucking whore! I'm gonna beat your face in!"
Kirill stirred from his seat and turned his head towards the door. Someone was yelling in the hall. Probably the couple in 406. They were always fighting.
"Stop it, stop it! You leave me here, no one to help, what do you expect me to do?" a woman's voice shouted back, angry and tearful.
"Don't you talk to me like that! Don't you talk to me like that!" a man said, and Kirill heard her face being slapped. He put his head on the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling.
"You touch my car again—" here the man broke off, and there were tussling sounds and cried of pain. For a few seconds after, there was only muffled sobbing.
"Get that kid outta my sight or I swear to God I'm gonna—"
"You stay away from him! Help! Someone call the police!" the woman shouted, now hysterical.
Kirill heard more doors opening, neighbors peering out through their doors, no doubt. Maybe someone even would call the police. He tried to shut it all out. Shut down everything. Disappear inside that bottle. But all he could hear was the woman sobbing and a child adding its crying voice to the din.
"Come here, now I'll kill you, bitch. Shut up, you think you'll go to the police? I told you to get up!"
In a fluid movement, Kirill stood up, walked to the door, and pulled it open. He saw a man towering over a woman crouched on the floor, a boy of about four clinging to her sweater. The man grabbed her collar, pulling her to a kneel as he swore and buffeted her face. Several pairs of eyes glinted through cracks in the doorways, watching the scene, doing nothing.
Kirill crossed the hallway with calm steps, grabbed the man by the back of his coat, and slammed him into the wall. He used his left elbow to hold his neck tight against the wall. His right hand was occupied with his gun. He held it somewhere against the side of the man's face.
"Shut up. Stop talking," he said. No one spoke.
The man's eyes went wide, his mouth very small all of the sudden. He looked from the gun to Kirill to the woman and child on the floor. Even the boy was silent.
"Stop bothering them. Just shut up and leave them alone," Kirill said. The man was too frightened to speak, or even nod. He only looked at the gun and Kirill's face. Kirill kept it there for a moment, but the scene was over. He wished he was back inside his apartment with his bottle.
He released the man and put his gun away. A quick glance over the hallway revealed the barely cracked doors pulling even tighter, the occupants preparing to slam and lock them. The woman watched him warily, hanging onto her child's hand as he whimpered.
"You need a car? You can use my car. Just ask me and I'll let you." The woman nodded without smiling. When she wasn't yelling or crying, she was almost pretty, with soft yellow hair hanging around her face. The boy was a tiny reflection of her, head a halo of pale curls. They both looked at him with fear.
"Eto piz`dets," Kirill muttered to himself. He strode to his pockmarked door, passing the woman in 418 who distinctly said "Mafiya" before closing her door and clicking the lock.
Once inside, Kirill turned up the volume on his television and got to work on finishing his bottle. He had two weeks left of his holiday. He was determined it would be a good one.
A/N: I've gotta stop writing about killers. Anyway, this little story is my attempt to show Kirill like he is in the movie, compared to how he tends to appear in fanfiction (some of which is nonetheless quite enjoyable). Go to TVtropes dot org and search for "Draco in Leather Pants". You will learn all you need to know.
