Biker

You were in a Russian hideout, in a vast, bloody mess. You were destroying Russian bandits with such ease that it was almost frightening. There was blood on your fists, your knuckles were burning, but you didn't have a single wound. "These Russian gangsters are incredibly stupid," you thought to yourself. Once the chaos was over and an agonizing silence reigned throughout the two-story building, you began to descend. You were confident that you had dealt with everyone and were now safe. But was that really the case? You walk down the stairs, hands stuffed in your pockets. You weren't carrying a weapon, you'd already disposed of all visible enemies, but as soon as you set foot on the first floor, you find yourself face to face with a man. This instantly sends shivers down your spine; you expected anything but this. You go into defensive mode again, adrenaline still coursing through your veins. It was the guy in the turquoise helmet, and he seemed wary as well the moment he spotted you. Although, he seemed a little out of it. Then he spoke in a sharp, loud voice, ** "Who are you working for?! Who started this bloody mess?!?!"**