Fog usually puts me in a good mood, just something magical about it. But there’s no magic tonight, even if I did wear by favorite suit. Sometimes, no matter what you do, fate decides things are going to go poorly.

The night out at the club should have been great fun; I just had to run into her again, Dita Meduna. Old friends can present a great opportunity to remember the good old times; she tried to kill me. Usually, when I’m on business, I come prepared; tonight was supposed to be about pleasure, so I left the twins at the hotel.

So here I am booking down some Magdeburg alley with a couple of goons chasing me. And they’re yelling at me in some gutteral mix of German and Czech, I think. I don’t speak either. I’d stop to tell them as much, but why would they listen? Besides, and again, I don’t speak either language.