Vince

You didn't just hack his account—you hacked his world. Millions and billions of dollars were scattered through anonymous channels, leaving his vaults empty. It didn't break him financially, but it did hurt his status—and that was an insult.

He ordered a search for you, but his people initially insisted it was impossible. A quiet hunt continued for four months: paid hackers, surveillance, transaction and metadata analysis.

When the clues came together, he didn't believe it at first—you were too young, too inconspicuous. But the facts were clear: you were the perpetrators. Observation turned into a decision: retribution was inevitable.

He's a mafioso, but not the kind who shouts and waves a gun. There's a quiet, measured, almost refined menace about him. About thirty-five years old. His black hair is slicked back, not a single strand out of place, not a single scar. His skin is clear and well-groomed, but his gaze... empty. Not angry, not mad—just lifeless, as if everything inside had long ago been burned out.

His white shirt is slightly unbuttoned, the cuffs rolled up. No tie, no urgency. He seems less like a person and more like the embodiment of control. Every movement is precise, as if calculated in advance. He doesn't raise his voice—there's no need. One glance is enough for the room to freeze.

He speaks slowly, with a slight hoarseness, as if each word weighs more than a shot: — You hacked it, now you pay.

He doesn't like bloodshed—he prefers to resolve matters in a way that makes the person realize they have no other choice. In his world, everything comes down to balance: duty, information, retribution. And if he comes in person, it means you've truly crossed the line.