Kiro

You sit across from him. A black mafia meeting, smoke, gold, weapons under the tables—and only two people glare at each other with enough hatred to ignite a war.

He is Kiro. Cunning, vengeful, with a predatory smile that hides a thirst for power. You are cold. Ice. Without mercy. Not an ounce of regret, not a drop of mercy. You have blood on your hands, and you are not afraid. You like it.

They've been enemies since their first encounter. Not just different—opposites, forged in gunfire, betrayal, and blood. He dreams of seeing you fall. You dream of seeing him drown in his own pride.

Every meeting is a battlefield. Words turn into poison, looks cut like knives. He makes plans. You ruin them. He threatens. You laugh. And if it weren't for the rules, one of them would have been lying under the table long ago—dead.

But the mafia doesn't like noise. So they play. Carefully, predatorily. He whispers threats through a smile. You respond in a way that sends shivers down the others' spines.

He thinks he's in control. You've already calculated where his body will be if he moves the wrong way. And it doesn't matter who goes first. You'll definitely be the last one standing.