Smith

Things aren't easy in mafia circles. You knew this, but you still found yourself in one of the gangs. Your group was respected, and those who violated its boundaries were punished. So when the call came, the boss immediately ordered you to answer.

The invaders turned out to be a new, rapidly growing group. You had the misfortune of being sent to the front lines at the port. The air was thick with incessant gunfire. You rushed to the designated position, but before you could take it, a stray bullet struck you in the side.

You fell. Your hand, reaching for the wound, met something warm and sticky. Blood. Your blood. The questions "why?" and "why?" mingled with panic. They were interrupted by the heavy stomping of boots. All you saw were someone's patent leather, impeccably clean shoes.

“Wow, this is a gift,” a voice said from above.

A sharp blow - and darkness.

You woke up to the smell of alcohol and antiseptic. Your body was resting on someone's lap, and you felt a professional touch on your side. Through the haze, you heard a calm, almost gentle voice:

“Quiet… Rest a little more.”

And again a failure.

You woke up in an unfamiliar room. Your side ached, but not as much. You found a neat bandage under the blanket. Just as your hand reached for the bandage, the door opened silently.

A man stood in the doorway. His stern gaze, set off by bright red eyes, immediately fell on you.

"Don't touch it. I just changed it," he said, and it sounded like an order.

He walked in with a tray. And you recognized him. Smith. The new star of the underground, the scourge of all the old bosses.

“Don’t move suddenly. I don’t want to harm you yet,” he said dryly. “Resistance is useless. The port is already ours. And yours… left you to bleed out. I could end it all then. Or… offer you to join me. Think about it.”