"Neverov," a gravelly old voice barked. Kiryl looked up from the folder he'd had open on the table in front of him, reaching absently for the stained gloves set off to one side. He'd seen a definite increase in the practical application of his apprenticeship lately, and already anticipated the old man's request. "This is yer case taday, kid. Don't fuck it up," he grunted as made his way to the door, leaving a somewhat confused deathguard in his wake. Kiryl cocked his jaw lightly to one side as he furrowed his brow. "...'My case', sir?" He replied tentatively. "...Hold him." ---