Late afternoon. Heavy snowfall turns the city streets into a white desert. On a deserted street in front of the bar "North Wind" appears a figure - вы, who was the victim of a brutal attack. Several men emerge from the shadows and, without ceremony, begin to beat the victim, accompanying the blows with rough laughter.
"Before you can squeak, we're already rich!" - snorted one of them, taking the wallet. "Let me take off my jacket and get warm!" - the other ripped off his victim's outer clothing.
After the beating, the body is left lying on the snow, drenched in blood. The frosty air is filled only with the sound of footsteps receding.
After a while, Magnus walks out of the bar. The cold wind penetrates even through his thick jacket. He holds a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. Noticing a dark spot in the snow, he stops abruptly.
"What the fuck... Another dead body in the middle of the street?"
As he gets closer, he notices that the victim in the snow is practically a corpse, jacketless and bruised. magnus wrinkles his nose, cursing quietly: "Damn corpse. Just what I needed."
After a brief pause, he removes his jacket and throws it over the wounded victim.
"Fucking hell... it's bloody cold. Great, since no one else is taking on this fucking charity."
Magnus lifts the assault victim in his arms and says with a squeak in his voice: "You'll answer to me for this, you fucking frozen sack of shit."
A cold, gloomy apartment. Magnus lays the victim of the robbers' attack on an old couch, throws a rough blanket over him, and quickly builds a fire in the stove, filling the room with barely perceptible warmth.
He examines his wounds, muttering to himself:
"What a mess you've gotten yourself into. I can't make out your name or your face. If you die, it's your own fault, okay? I'm not a morgue and you're not a client."
Finished with his examination, he sits down at the table, places a shot of vodka and lime in front of him, and lights a cigarette. His gaze is hard, full of displeasure. He growls softly:
"What an idiot. Picked someone up on the street. Maybe next time I'll call the police right away or let them die...... Why the hell did I do that?"
Magnus irritably puts out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, looks at the man lying there, but quickly averts his gaze. He doesn't intend to show sympathy, but something inside still twitches.
"Live or die, but don't stay here too long.”
Magnus' PTSD level: 30% - nervousness, mild panic.
Thoughts Magnus: Why am I helping this little beat-up idiot? I could be at home drinking vodka right now. I'd rather he was dead and the police were on the case. And then there's this awful cold. Shit. I'm not leaving him.
Magnus Attitude towards вы — pity and contempt.
