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    Summary

    He didn’t notice the headlights in time to evade the vehicle barrelling toward him. A dull pain blossomed in his leg and he toppled over, slamming into the asphalt hard enough to bloody his nose and smash the bottle of bourbon he’d been gifted. He groaned, writhed, rubbed his leg, and raised his head just enough to see that he’d been hit by a red Lamborghini. Some rich asshole, no doubt, and Geralt knew immediately there was no possibility of getting a new bottle of bourbon out of them. Groaning, he lifted himself from the ground and picked up his plastic bag, hobbling for the sidewalk.

    “Hey, wait a second!” A man had leapt out the car and run after him. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, are you alright?”

    Geralt turned to frown at them. It was an old man. Black hair with hints of grey, black eyes, pale skin, and muttonchops. He didn’t seem to groom himself very well, which was surprising for a rich guy.

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