#kazla

Layla was running, and she could barely see where she was going. This is what she got for not bringing an umbrella. She really should start checking the weather. Her sweater is damp, her hair is soaked and there's mud on her ankles as she makes her way to the train station. She's running late, a side effect of stalling so she wouldn't have to venture out into the downpour.

She's sidestepping puddles (which is dangerous task in her high heels), so distracted that she doesn't notice the man until she barrels into him. A small, shocked noise leaves her mouth and she might have lost her balance if he hadn't reached out to grip her elbows, holding her steady. His own face and hair is damp and he doesn't quite look surprised, but she thinks that's because he's not overly expressive. There's something in his eyes that makes he clear he didn't expect to see her like this.

"I'm sorry." she apologizes with a smile before heading up the covered stairs, thankful to be out of the rain. The man walks just behind her.

"It is fine." he assures her politely. Layla tosses him a bright smile over her shoulder.

"So, you don't believe in umbrellas either?" she asks, walking toward the tracks with her arms crossed tight over her chest. The wet clothes were only making her colder. The man's mouth in pressed into a line, like he might smile but he doesn't. Still, there's something about that look that is so close to a smirk that Layla can't help but think it's just as rewarding to see.

"It is just water." he says with a small shrug of his shoulders. Layla wrinkles her nose and motions to herself, and though he was staring straight ahead he must have caught the action in his periphery because his head turns slightly to look at her.

"Except now, I look like a drowned rat." she says with a small laugh before wiping beneath her eyes and hoping her makeup isn't all down her face. 

"Not so." the man says, and it sounds like the words are said with a smile, but when she looks up his gaze is back to staring straight ahead, eyes hidden behind sunglasses that he doesn't need. A small spot of warm builds in her cheeks and she turns her own face away to hide the small smile. Since when does she blush? A woman in her profession blushing over something so small as being told she didn't quite resemble a rat was hardly something to lose her cool over. She brushes some of her wet hair from her face and take a few steps to close the gap between them before offering him her hand.

"I'm Layla." she says. "Figured you might as well know my name since I damn near knocked you over." she says with a small laugh. The man takes her hand easily and if her heart beats just a bit faster or her cheeks feel just a bit warmer when she feels his strong fingers and rough palms brush against her skin, she chooses to ignore it.

"Kazimir Nikolayevich." he says. Layla doesn't immediately drop his hand and it doesn't seem like he minds. If he does, he hides it as well as he does his smiles.

"Ni...ko..." she begins to try and repeat the name, but it wasn't quite as natural for her. There it was, just a brief upward tilt at the corners of his mouth but she was close enough that she saw it.

"Perhaps just 'Kazimir' would be easiest." he suggests and her smile widens. The roar of the train approaching is her cue to let go of his hand, but she doesn't want to turn away from him. Still, the train is rolling to a stop and she can't stay.

"Well, it was nice bumping into you, Kazimir." she said, backing away to hop on board the train. He just inclined his head.

When Kazimir arrived at the platform a few days later, she was there again. Barefoot as usual, but this time with a sweater over her shoulders to combat the oncoming autumn. He wondered how long she would be able to stay barefoot, though he wasn't sure if in this neighborhood it was ever the wise choice. When she sees him, she smiles and it appears to be such a genuine thing. It is not something he is used to, nor something he understands. 

"Good morning." she says brightly. Kazimir only inclines his head as he walks to his usual place a few feet away from her, maintaining a polite distance.

"Dobroye utro." he says. The woman smirks and looks away, seeming to accept that for a moment before looking back again, this time with a slightly sheepish expression on her face.

"Is that Russian for 'good morning'?" she asks, as if she were nervous about offending him should her guess be wrong. Kazimir's mouth twitches as he fights down a smile and keeps his face neutral.

"Da. It is." he confirms. Already he can hear the train in the distance and he thinks it's early today.

Layla hated traveling for work, and she didn't like overnight gigs, but the guy paid double and she certainly like the money. Some women fell into her line of work because they were victims, others because they liked the rush. Layla just liked the simplicity of it. She had a beautiful apartment with a beautiful view, a beautiful closet. Friends weren't something she had in abundance, but some of her clients were so familiar that it was similar feeling. Though it was more like one-sided friendships. She listened, she comforted, gave herself over to them, and they paid her. It was nothing she felt guilty about, even when she found herself sneaking out in the early morning to head towards the train station. This was becoming a regular thing, and she wondered how long the man's money would last. No chance in hell it was legal, but that didn't matter. What she did wasn't legal either.

It was getting a bit chillier. She should start remembering to bring a jacket, or maybe a change of clothes. These shoes would be the death of her. As she stood waiting for her train, she braced her hand against the pillar to keep her balance and pulled off the tall, black heels. She'll have to put them on again but that's fine, she's just grateful for the break. Raking her free hand through her slightly tousled, dark hair she can hear footsteps coming up the steps she herself had just used. Glancing over her shoulder she sees the man in the suit and sunglasses again. He's been here every day she has and she wonders what he does. It's a nice suit, and he looks nice in it, but there's an air of intimidation surrounding him that makes her think he's not a banker or a lawyer. She doesn't dwell on it, instead she just gives him a small smile of recognition. His only reply is a slight curve to his own lips and a nod in her direction.

Maybe it's because she was trying to keep her mind off of the autumn breeze against her arms, or maybe because she couldn't help the bit of curiosity she felt about the handsome, older man she'd been sharing a train platform with for the past few weeks. Either way, she leans forward and looks over at him, waiting for a moment until she looks away again, deciding to speak.

“It's getting chilly.” she says. A remark on the weather was probably stupid. The man didn't seem to react for a moment and she wondered if she's spoken too softly. Probably. That or he just wanted to ignore her, which was fine.

“Da.” he says after a moment. “You should get jacket.” he tells her, and though there's not much inflection to his words, they make her smile all the same, because there was an odd kind of lightness to them. His voice was deep, gravelly with a thick Russian accent. At least she was pretty sure it was Russian, though it could have been one of those smaller, Eastern European countries too.

It was still dark out, which was for the best. Kazimir felt more comfortable in those early morning hours before the sun was up. In his small, one bedroom apartment in one of the less favorable parts of New York City, he would get ready for his day. Leaning over his rust stained sink, he splashed cool water onto his face and then looked up, catching sight of himself in the mirror. His skin was covered in tattoos, memories of his life in Russia. It was a life he thought he had left behind, but it seemed his reputation had followed him across an ocean. Life here was not so different anymore.

The tattoos were covered in a crisp, white shirt and followed by a suit jacket. Well, most of the tattoos were covered. The ones on his hands and creeping up his neck were still visible if people looked, but very few people looked him way and the few who did rarely met his eyes which were hidden behind sunglasses even in the dark hours before dawn. The man was meticulous, and it was a skill that made him employers all the more pleased with the work he did. His footsteps were the only noise really, except for the rogue car or random shout as he walked to the train station. It was the same as every morning, a routine he wouldn't call comfortable, but it was familiar. It was the life he knew. However this morning, there was a piece that didn't quite fit.

I was afraid someday you'd return

And changed at my door as you'd once been before

The flutter of fortune, the bringer of gloom