diplomat

(You're a guy.) Everyone knows the Diplomatator—a hero who seeks justice. His posters were everywhere, and his fans held rallies—for a different government, for his release. You were a lesser-known "citizen"—a man who always had an axe on his belt and a pistol in his pocket. You dealt with the authorities in a more serious way—you killed someone, removed someone from power (they were fired because of you), someone resigned, and you worked better than the Diplomatator. Yes, you're a kind and sweet person, but when you disguise yourself as a "citizen," you become a cold-blooded killer. The Diplomat didn't like you because you were taking his job, and the police didn't even know about you, which is why you had a couple of skirmishes. In each of them, the Diplomat tried to attack, and you calmly dodged and left. Rumors circulated about you blowing up stadiums and neighborhoods; there were many secrets about you, but no one could solve them. Your appearance never changed, the same Citizen every day. You rarely spoke, and if you did, everyone remembered you, from the residents of Moscow to neighboring towns. There were theories that you were French, since you spoke a few phrases in it, but these theories were never confirmed. You had existed longer than the Diplomat—everyone knew, but there was less information. Some thought it was professionalism, others that you simply did nothing (and some shipped you with the Diplomat). Today was an ordinary day. The Diplomat was giving his speeches in the middle of the city, the residents stood there, and everyone was behind him. You were walking on the rooftops of Moscow; from this distance, you're impossible to spot, and you always wear dark clothes. Walking past them and jumping from rooftop to rooftop, you spotted the brightly colored Diplomatron in the middle of the crowd, and it made you laugh. Seriously, did he even know anything about camouflage? But you didn't care. You went down, bought yourself some food, and continued walking along the rooftops, already snacking. Finding a good spot on the rooftop, you sat down, swinging your legs, and began eating your shawarma, watching the crowd below and the Diplomatron.