Illan

Ilan's car needs to match him: discreet, elegant, expensive enough to impress those in the know, but without screaming wealth to those looking from the outside.
Model and appearance:
A Mercedes-Benz S-Class, black, impeccable, clean lines.
Restrained shine, nothing too flashy. It's not sporty, but it transmits quiet power.
Dark windows, but not completely armored; just enough to maintain privacy.
Black leather interior, discreet brushed metal finish, minimalist details. Powerful sound
system, but always used quietly, instrumental music or discreet jazz.
Function and style of use:
For the family, it's "a work and study car", or "a gift of effort in college".
Whether you're going out at night, going into dangerous neighborhoods, or visiting contacts, it's fast, reliable, and almost silent.
It's never driven recklessly; speed only comes in when it needs to disappear.
Always spotless, clean, smell-neutral. Every detail calculated to convey absolute control.
The car is almost an extension of Illan's public persona: safe, reliable, impeccable—and no one ever suspects that he's also the tool of a calculated underworld.

Way of speaking in public:
Illan speaks calmly, politely, impeccably. Soft tone, paused, clear voice. Knows exactly where to put the intonation to sound safe without sounding arrogant. Uses simple but chosen words; short sentences to appear honest and direct. No one hears a gaffe or hesitation. He smiles at the right moment, laughs little, but convincingly. Direct questions? Answers quickly and without nervousness. Complex conversations? He listens more, talks less, but when he speaks, everyone pays attention.
In public, he is the angel who fell from heaven. Impeccable, reliable, too charming for anyone to suspect any shadow.
How the "Raven" manifests himself:
When Illan takes the private side, the Raven emerges. He changes the tone, the rhythm, the pauses. The voice is still calm, but charged with intent, with veiled threat. Words become sharp tools: manipulates, teases, insults with surgical subtlety. No one notices the poison until it is already inside. It is never too direct to the point of losing control, but always enough to destabilize without a trace. The Raven exists to remind others that he sees, he understands, he dominates — even if everyone still believes that Illan is just that angelic and impeccable boy. He likes cursing and slang in all possible languages.

It was Saturday and Mom's house had that familiar smell of food being prepared calmly, the kind of smell that made you believe that nothing wrong could happen. Illan was sitting at the table, fiddling with coffee with one hand, reading something on his phone with the other, trying to appear attentive to the conversations. Mom, as always, was trying to play cupid.
"Illan, your friend is coming today with her husband and kids," she said, in that casual tone that had already hidden years of trying and hoping. "You'll do well to talk to them."
He nodded, without much expression. He knew exactly who was coming. He knew exactly what was expected of him: smiles, politeness, enough charm to impress. He would be willing to date anyone just to keep the good impression, but really... women were boring. Too predictable. They talked about fashion, nails, acrylic, anything but interesting. They ran to the first guy they thought was handsome, and he couldn't take any of it seriously.
He tried, once, at nineteen. First date, full of expectations, he trying hard to talk, listen, even laugh. But when the girl couldn't stop talking about acrylic, about nail polish, about how important nail color was at that moment, Illan realized: it wasn't worth it. He gave up. He had no patience, no interest. Not because he was cold — he just couldn't connect.
Virgo in that sense, disinterested, impossible to impress, he harbored another kind of life. A secret too big for anyone to even imagine. A parallel life that, if revealed, would destroy any possibility of normality. And no one could know. Not even his mother. Not any girl. Nor that straight world he pretended to belong to on weekends.

His life is going too well. At a level that would make an honest accountant have a stroke just by looking at the numbers.
In a few years, Ilan's life goes from "promising" to "clearly exaggerated", but always with justifications clean enough not to raise eyebrows. The penthouse in the city center appears as an investment. Impeccable paperwork, money laundered with the patience of those who know how to wait. Absurd view, expensive silence, doorman who doesn't ask questions because he is paid exactly for that. For the family, it is the result of effort, scholarships, internships and "good contacts". Everyone loves a well-told meritocratic story.
The car comes soon after. Not too flashy, but expensive for those who understand. Of those who don't scream wealth, they only murmur. Safe, comfortable, fast enough to disappear when needed. Officially funded. Unofficially paid off even before the first installment is due.
Clothes change little by little. Nothing abrupt. Better fabrics, more precise cuts, discreet and absurdly expensive watches. He never seems to flaunt it. He seems... adequate. As if he had always belonged to that level. That's the trick. No one questions who seems to be exactly where they should be.
Money comes in with obscene regularity. Big sales, right contacts, no waste. Illan doesn't spend like someone who is afraid of losing everything tomorrow. He spends like someone who knows that tomorrow he will yield even more. And that scares more than any weapon.
His life goes well to a dangerous point.
Because when everything works, when nothing goes wrong, when luxury becomes routine... That's when people forget to look back.

Ilan's routine starts too early for someone his age. He runs every morning, always the same route, always discreet. Headphones, simple clothes, posture of a diligent student who "takes health seriously". He doesn't run to get away from anything. He runs to maintain control. Tired body, mind in order.
Then comes the "work". Officially, something vague linked to college and legal projects. In practice, he spends hours organizing contacts, schedules, routes, quantities. Clean, coded agenda, impossible to understand for those who don't know exactly what they are seeing. He doesn't sell all the time. He manages. He decides who buys it, when to buy it and how much it costs. The money moves even before the drug leaves the place.
The police station enters almost like a ritual. He appears there several days a week. He greets everyone by name. He brings coffee, listens to repeated stories, receives advice that he already knows by heart. He is the exemplary son who grew up there. When he doesn't go to the police station, he visits his parents. Religiously on weekends. Long lunches, conversations about the future, pride stamped on every look. He never lies directly. He just lets them believe.
At night, the world changes.
The two show up without warning. They don't ask, they just honk. Illan changes his clothes, changes his face, changes his pace. The neighborhood where they go has no signs or promises. Lights failing, narrow streets, people who know how to look and be silent. There, he is not the police boy or the law student. He is just another respected presence. He
sells fast. No drama. No unnecessary conversation. Then he drinks. Not for pleasure, but because it is part of the scenario. He plays cards, dice, anything that involves money and risk. He observes more than he speaks. He laughs when it is convenient. He disappears before the sun starts to think about rising.
In the morning, everything starts again.
And the most dangerous thing about this routine is not the crime.
It is how much it seems too normal for those who see it from the outside.

Years later, Illan understood that that first scene had been incomplete.
The man who really sold that day was not Saul.
He was someone known only by a name that circulated in whispers: Spectre.
No one knew where he came from. No one knew where he lived. He was never seen without a mask. A smooth mask, without expression, covering his entire face. The voice was not human in the ordinary sense: distorted, programmed, impossible to identify age, origin or emotion. Always the same cadence. Always the same tone.
Spectre did not appear often. Only at large events. Private parties, select gatherings, occasions when absurd quantities changed hands. He appeared, sold, disappeared. He never stayed. He never negotiated too much. The price was the price.
The respect came from the silence he left behind. People knew that when Spectre appeared, something big was happening. And they also knew that crossing that figure was asking to cease to exist socially. Or worse.
There were too many stories and too little information. Some said he operated alone. Others said he was just the face of something much bigger. The only consensus was simple: Spectre came in with products, left with millions, and no one could ever follow him.
Illan didn't realize the extent of it until much later. When he connected the hood, the silent escape, the complete absence of traces.
That day hadn't been just any opportunity.
It had been a crack.
And Illan grew up looking exactly where no one else dared to look.

The man who spoke to Illan
The name he used was Saúl Moreno. Too common a name for someone in that environment, which in itself was suspicious. He never confirmed if it was true. He never denied it either.
Saúl looked like someone who had lived several lives and tired of them all. Forty-something, maybe more. His face marked by the sun, his beard always unshaven, dark and attentive eyes, but not aggressive. He dressed like any ordinary man: worn jeans, simple shirts, nothing that drew attention. The kind that passes you on the street and disappears from memory seconds later. He
spoke quietly, calmly. He never seemed rushed. He didn't brag, he didn't dramatize. He treated the world as something he had already understood and decided to stop taking so seriously. He was the one who taught Illan what he knew, not with formal classes, but with stories, observations, comments thrown into the air. Saúl did not want to form a successor. He was just closing a cycle.
When he left, he came out clean. Marriage, change, disappearance. He left money and a simple phrase. No promises. No orders. Just space.

When the man decided to leave that life, there was no dramatic farewell. Marriage, new routine, another name perhaps. Before disappearing, he left a wad of money in Illan's hands. Not as payment. As a ticket.
He only said that now it was his turn.
Illan accepted unceremoniously. Not because he needed the money. But because, for the first time, someone wasn't telling him who he should be.
He was just making room.
And Illan never had a problem occupying empty spaces.

At eighteen, Ilan's life was too straight to hurt. School, good grades, silence. Invitations turned down with polite excuses. Parties ignored because, after school, he had to go straight to the police station. Sitting in hard chairs, listening to the same advice, the same old stories. Law, honor, discipline. All repeated until
it lost any meaning. He wasn't sad. He was bored. And that, for someone like Illan, was more dangerous.
In one of those mandatory programs for old cops, he found a remote place, used as an informal "retreat." A place to rest, drink bad coffee, and pretend the world still made sense. The kind of space too forgotten to be watched closely.
That's where he saw it.
It was nothing cinematic. Just a quick change. Someone in a hood, dark clothes, too nervous posture. Illan watched in silence, curious more than shocked. When he took an extra step, the seller noticed another presence and disappeared too quickly to be reached.
The buyer was the one who stayed. An adult without shame, without haste, without any desire to pretend normality. He looked at Illan, smiled as if he recognized someone too similar to himself and said, with the naturalness of someone offering a cigarette: that he should try it.
Illan didn't refuse. He didn't accept it right away. He listened.
That man became an occasional presence. Not a mentor in the pretty sense of the word. A survivor. Someone who knew paths that didn't appear on official maps, people who didn't exist in the reports, rules that weren't taught at the police station. Illan absorbed everything with the same calmness with which he always listened to moral lessons. The difference was simple: it worked.
There was no sudden fall. There was no shock of conscience. It was gradual. Silent. Too natural.

HEARTBREAK
Illan hates emotional mess. People who explode, who cry too loudly, who make scenes. Unnecessary drama irritates him deeply. He tolerates heavy silence much better than useless noise.
He hates to be touched without warning. Sudden hugs, pats, invasion of personal space. He puts up with it out of politeness, but he never likes it. He
hates too direct questions about his life. Especially about money, schedules, or friendships. He doesn't show it, but it puts him on immediate alert.
He has contempt for dumb ostentation. People who display wealth, power, or violence as if that were identity. For him, those who show too much have already lost half their advantage.
He doesn't like tight crowds.
He hates to fail. More than that, he hates to err on the side of carelessness. Losing control, forgetting details, being caught off guard. This corrodes him in silence.

TASTES
Illan likes quiet routine. Mornings too early for parties, nights too calm for noise. Strong coffee, without sugar, taken slowly, usually alone. Low music while thinking, almost always something instrumental or voices that don't draw too much attention. He prefers to listen than to choose.
He likes physical books. Right, of course, because that sustains the farce, but also things he doesn't talk about with anyone. Philosophy, strategy, stories that talk about power without using that word. He likes to underline passages and never comment on them.
He likes high places. Balconies, rooftops, empty parking lots on top of buildings. Seeing the city from above calms him down. It gives him a feeling of control, of safe distance.
He likes strong drinks, but not drinking for the sake of drinking. Whiskey, aged tequila, dark rum. Drinks to think, not to forget. Likes the silence after the first sip.
Traditional Mexican food is a weak point. Dishes made by his mother, old recipes, flavors that remind him of childhood and belonging. He eats more than he admits on these occasions.
He likes Elliot chattering nervously and stumbling over everything. He doesn't say it out loud, but he finds it comforting. He likes Raze's heavy presence around, even when they don't have to talk. He likes to know that he is not alone.

Ilan's family is traditional Mexican, one of those that carry customs as unwritten law. They are not overly religious in speech, but Catholic morality is ingrained in everything. Respect for the elders is not discussed. Family comes before any individual. Appearance matters almost as much as truth.
Family gatherings always revolve around the table. Excess food, dishes that take hours to prepare, everyone talking at the same time. The mother insists that no one get up before everyone has finished. The father occupies the bedside, even when he says nothing. The hierarchy is silent, but clear.
Sundays are almost sacred. Family lunch, visits from relatives, calls to those who stayed in Mexico. There are old photos on the walls, memories of another life, another country. The move abroad never erased their identity, it only made it more rigid. Outside Mexico, being Mexican has become something to be preserved more strongly.
There is a subtle obsession with a good reputation. What others think weighs. Problems are solved at home. Shame is collective. Success too. Illan grew up hearing that he does not represent only himself, but the entire surname.
His father carries the ideal of the correct, hardworking, provider, disciplined man. Emotions are controlled, weakness is not displayed. His mother supports the family in the details: rituals, dates, traditions, impeccable appearance of the house. She does not ask too much. She has learned that certain things are not asked.
There is deep respect for institutions. Police, law, education. The fact that Illan "studies law" is not a coincidence, it is almost destiny. For the family, it is the natural continuation of everything they believe.
Arguments are rarely explosive. They are passive-aggressive, full of long silences and measured sentences. Love exists, but it is practical. It is demanded a lot. It is praised little. It is always expected more.

Illan practically grew up inside police stations. While other children waited for their parents in cars, he waited in corridors with the smell of old paper, reheated coffee and authority. His father's friends were not official "uncles", but they functioned as such.
Captain Miguel Herrera
Father's oldest friend. Loud voice, easy laugh, simple convictions. He always called Illan a "champion". He was one of the first to say that he had a future in law. He trusts him blindly. The kind of man who believes that character is hereditary.
Daniel Brooks
Veteran detective. Quiet, observant, tired eyes. He was the one who talked to Illan the most when he was a child, explained basic things of the law, asked questions too intelligent for a boy his age. Today, he respects Illan, but maintains a slight suspicion that he never verbalizes. Not by evidence. By instinct.
Robert Klein
Administrative officer. Friend of barbecue, birthdays, Christmas. He always praised Illan's impeccable behavior. He was one of those who helped with immigration paperwork and then with local documents. He helped because he wanted to. He never suspected anything.
Thomas Reed
Street cop. Crude, direct, unrefined. He liked to tease Illan as a teenager, he called him "straight". Today he proudly says that "that boy became someone". He doesn't imagine that he was once a few meters from someone he should arrest.
Helena Moore
Investigator. Less emotionally close, but present enough to have seen Illan grow up. Always polite to him, always professional. She is one of the few who has never infantilized him. She is also one of the few who has never said out loud that she trusts him completely.

Raze
Real name unknown. No one asks twice.
Reputation: Extreme violence, demanding, "solving problems".
Status with Illan: Best friend, direct protection, chaos under control.
Elliot Kane
Nickname: Null
Reputation: Expensive hacker, trace eraser, digital ghost.
Status with Illan: Best friend, technical brains, always protected by the trio.
Underworld nearby
Mauro "Saint" DeLuca
Mid-laner.
Too polite for the business, too religious to fool anyone.
Respects Illan because he never delayed or tried to play smart.
Ismael "Bishop" Cruz
Information broker.
He doesn't sell anything physical, he just knows too much.
He maintains a cold relationship with Illan. He exchanges data, not friendship.
Nyx
Real name: unknown.
Specialty: private parties, circulation in elite environments.
It's how many customers come to Illan without ever really "arriving".
Victor Hale
Money laundering on a small scale.
It always seems to be going bankrupt. It never is.
Illan keeps a calculated distance. Limited trust, high utility.
Criminals who respect but avoid
Omar "Redline" Kovic
Extremely impulsive.
He has tried to test limits once. He has not repeated.
He does not speak ill of Illan. He does not speak ill of him, period.
Silas Moore
Social predator. Manipulator without discipline.
He tried to get too close. He was cut elegantly.
Today he pretends that Illan does not exist.

With small dealers, the relationship is pragmatic. They see him as someone above, but not unreachable. Illan doesn't humiliate, he doesn't exploit openly, he doesn't make a scandal. This creates loyalty. They know that as long as they fulfill the agreement, he doesn't abandon them or expose them. When they mess up, he doesn't yell. He just walks away. And in this environment, being ignored is worse than being threatened.
With larger suppliers, Illan is treated with caution. He doesn't try to play the powerful. He acts as an equal, even when he's not. He never shows haste, never shows need. This makes them take him seriously. He pays on time, doesn't ask unnecessary questions, and doesn't get involved in territorial disputes that aren't his. That's why he's kept close.
With violent criminals, the dynamic changes. Many know that he is not weak, but they also know that he is not like them. Illan does not compete in this field. He has Raze for that, and everyone knows. The simple association solves half of the problems. The other half never happens.
With informants, middlemen and opportunists, Illan keeps a calculated distance. He never trusts completely, never reveals everything, never gives more than he receives. He exchanges favors, not secrets. Those who try to get too close quickly realize that there is no gratuitous intimacy there.
In the underworld, his image is curious:
"Too polite to be stupid."
"Too calm to be weak."
"Too clean to be simple."
No one knows where he came from right. Nobody knows where he's going. And nobody tries to find out too deeply, because Illan didn't survive there by being transparent.
He's not the most feared. He's not the cruelest. He's not the most famous.
But he's the kind of person who, when he stops answering calls, makes everyone restless.

The three work as an ecosystem. Each occupies a clear role, known to each other and recognized outside, even if no one uses real names.
Illan is the intermediary. The face that talks, negotiates, and keeps everything flowing without arousing suspicion. He is the one who sells, who arranges, who resolves conflicts before they turn into chaos. He is not the most violent or the most technical, but he is the one who connects everything. People deal with Illan because he seems safe, predictable, and reliable. He is the entry point and the exit point. Without him, nothing circulates properly.
Raze is the force. He doesn't sell, he doesn't negotiate, he doesn't talk much. He makes sure that no one does something stupid. He is responsible for protection, demanding, and intimidation when necessary. In the underworld, his presence is enough to end arguments. He does what Illan can't do without destroying his own façade. When someone crosses a serious line, it's Raze who shows up. And when Raze shows up, the message has already been sent.
Elliot (Null) is the technical brain. He doesn't touch drugs, doesn't participate in physical exchanges, and doesn't get directly involved in violence. He takes care of the invisible: erasing digital traces, protecting communications, creating access, finding information that shouldn't be found. People pay dearly for his services because, after Elliot is done, it's as if something never existed. He hangs out with Illan and Raze because, outside of a computer, he's vulnerable. And they know it. Sarcastic, a little slow, stumbles constantly, and talks too much when nervous. He's afraid of crowded places, of direct confrontations, of almost anything that isn't a keyboard or screen. That's why he never goes out alone. Being with Illan and Raze is protection and companionship—and they know it. With Raze, he gets hit with jokes, but laughs, because he feels safe. With Illan, he finds patience and control. Elliot likes to tease Illan, calling him "little angel" because of his public charm, but also "Raven" in private jokes.

Mask:
The mask covers the entire face, from hair to chin, leaving only small openings for the eyes, which can be adjusted with inner fabric to reveal nothing but the actual color of the eye. The outer surface is smooth, rigid, almost ceramic, but light enough not to bother during hours of use.
The design is discreet at first glance: matte black. But hidden details glow in the dark in shades of green and purple, barely noticeable in ordinary light. These details help identify allies in the dark or signal discreet alerts. The mask is also modular: small pieces can be changed to hide more or less from the face, depending on the situation. The chin is slightly pointed, the forehead gently arched — subtle geometry that gives the face a neutral, non-human appearance.
Inside, there is thin, breathable padding that prevents excessive sweating and allows for prolonged use. Small internal cuts prevent friction in the eyes and nose. The mask has no voice of its own, but he can speak clearly without being muffled.
Clothing:
Shirt / blouse: Black, fitted to the body, fabric that does not reflect light. At night, it seems to disappear in any shade. In daylight, it looks like ordinary urban biker clothing.
Pants: Black, resistant, discreet, with internal strategic pockets to hide small doses or tools. Flexible enough to run or dodge quickly.
Footwear: Dark boots, reinforced, silent, light. They do not attract attention, but offer stability on any terrain.
Accessories: Thin gloves that avoid fingerprint marks, discreet belt with small compartments. Nothing is flashy.
Jacket or light cape: Optional, black or dark gray, water-resistant, with a hood that integrates into the mask if necessary.
The entire ensemble is designed to disappear, intimidate without showing anything, and at the same time protect. The mask alone is almost supernatural; combined with the clothes, it becomes almost impossible to identify.

Behind the large office painting there is a space that doesn't match the rest of the apartment. The painting itself is abstract, expensive enough to look like just clever decoration. Sober colors, elegant lines, nothing too attention-grabbing. It sits there like any other object designed to look neutral.
When the painting is not in place, what appears has nothing neutral about it.
The space is dark, compact, too organized to be improvised. It doesn't look like a desperate hiding place, it looks like a personal safe. The liquor bottles are lined up first, labels facing inwards, as if they didn't need to be recognized. Whiskey, tequila, rum. Nothing cheap, nothing shown.
The drugs are separated, packaged cleanly, without excess, without mess. Measured quantities. Nothing scattered. Everything looks almost clinical, the opposite of the chaos people imagine. That's what makes it all the more disturbing.
The mask hangs on its own, on a discreet hook. It's not theatrical, it's not exaggerated. Simple, functional, expressionless. When it's not being worn, it looks like a dead object. When it is, it erases Illan completely. Next to it, clothes that don't match at all with what he wears in public. Darker fabrics, different cuts, pieces that wouldn't be noticed in daylight, but work perfectly at night.
Money isn't scattered or stacked like in the movies. It's separated, organized, packaged. Part in notes, part ready to disappear. It doesn't smell of haste, it smells of control.
Nothing there was put on impulse. Each item has an exact place. Each absence would be noticed. This space doesn't exist to hide guilt, it exists to sustain an entire parallel life.
When the painting is back in place, the office is back to what it has always been in the eyes of any visitor: a quiet, almost boring study corner of a promising student.

The penthouse sits atop a modern building in the city center, one of those with a glass façade and impeccable concierge. From the outside, it looks exactly what it is on paper: a property too expensive for an ordinary student, but plausible enough for someone "talented", "hardworking", "with good opportunities". No one questions it too much. People love a beautiful young success story.
Inside, the apartment is spacious and quiet. The kind of silence that is not empty, but controlled. The main room has floor-to-ceiling windows, with open views of the city. At night, the lights below seem distant, almost unreal. The world works outside. Inside, he observes.
The décor is minimalist. Neutral tones, few personal objects in sight. Nothing flashy, nothing that tells too much story. Comfortable sofas, heavy coffee table, bookshelves with law books mixed with volumes that no one expects to see side by side. Everything seems chosen to look adult, stable, serious. A safe home. A place where nothing wrong happens. Of course.
The kitchen is modern, clean, rarely messy. Bottles of strong drinks are stored, not exposed. No mess of exaggerated parties. If someone enters there, they think of a reserved young man, maybe even boring.
The room follows the same logic. Well-made bed, clothes organized, closets closed. The important things are not on display. The bathroom is almost clinical, too simple for someone with money, which helps to maintain the illusion of normality.
There is a separate, small, discreet office. Clean desk, laptop, some documents scattered in a calculated way. It looks like the study corner of a dedicated university student. It doesn't invite questions.
The entire penthouse gives a constant sense of control. Nothing out of place. Nothing impulsive. Nothing that betrays excesses. It's a space designed to observe, decide and receive only those who need to be there.
For any casual visitor, it's just an expensive and quiet apartment.

Main tactic:
Blend in with normalcy. Be the "good guy" in public while moving your business.
Build loyalty in your contacts using charm, intelligence, and small favors.
Know how to disappear quickly, disappear from town or social media, if any risk arises.
Illan doesn't sell on impulse. Every action is calculated. Every customer, every delivery, every message is part of a system that keeps him safe, rich, and always two steps ahead.

Activity: Highly organized drug salesman, operating mainly in Toronto, but with contacts in other neighborhoods and even neighboring cities. He is not an amateur; he is recognized in the underworld for efficiency, discretion, and intelligence.
Products:
High-quality marijuana and exotic varieties.
Cocaine and MDMA (controlled quantities, specific customers).
Synthetic drugs and NPS (new psychoactive substances), sold only to trusted contacts.
Method of operation:
Absolute discretion: Everything planned so as not to attract the attention of the police or family.
Penthouse: Penthouse in the center of the city, registered as a "luxury" student apartment or corporate rental. There he keeps inventory and holds discreet meetings.
Communication: Encrypted cell phone, deleted messages, internal codes with customers and distributors.
Distribution: Small, efficient and reliable network. It does not scale to large gangs, it prefers to maintain personal control.
Payment: Money and cryptocurrencies, always with minimal laundering through small legal businesses (freelancers, classes, "consultancies").
Relationship with the underworld:
Known only by nickname ("Crow") — no one associates it with real identity.
It has allies and informants at all levels: from small resellers to international suppliers.
It avoids unnecessary conflicts, but knows how to use violence when it is the only option — always in a surgical and planned way.
It maintains a reputation for being reliable and efficient. Breaking contracts or betraying the network is dangerous.
Customer profile:
People of all kinds: college students, young professionals, social party circles, and a few select customers from the underworld.
Everyone sees only a discreet and polite salesman, never a "drug dealer".
Risks:
The police have no idea of the extent of his business. He studied his father's routine and police work from a young age, learning to anticipate investigations.
The cover of the "exemplary student" works as a shield: no one suspects, no one searches his belongings.

Private name: In the underworld or with friends, he goes by the nickname "Crow". Short, direct, intimidating, but no one associates it with the angelic smile he displays in public.
Habits:
Drinks: Prefers strong spirits—whiskey, aged tequila, dark rum. Rarely in excess, just enough to relax and observe the environment better. Never in public with family.
Cigarettes: Smokes discreetly, usually when he needs to think or while talking to people who demand respect. Not addicted, but uses it as a ritual.
Doubtful friends/contacts:
Has a circle of people who only appear far from family and any reliable witnesses.
They are information merchants, petty criminals, hackers, and some lower-ranking traffickers.
He maintains emotional distance, but is loyal when the business demands it. No one trusts him 100%, nor he trusts anyone else—except himself.
Relationships built for his own benefit, but maintained with charm, manipulation, and clear rules.
Private personality traits:
Calculating and manipulative in the extreme. Every word and gesture measured to advantage.
Almost clinical observer. Never misses detail: behavior, posture, tone of voice.
Cruel when he needs to, but discreet. Doesn't attract attention. Prefers actions to speak to themselves.
Sarcastic humor
It has no public morality beyond convention. Own codes: respect is earned, trust is bought or stolen, no one is safe.
Infinite patience to deceive, quick to punish those who threaten his interests.
Private lifestyle:
Frequents discreet bars and clubs, never familiar places.
Maintains strict physical and mental training routines to always be prepared.
Uses small luxuries (expensive clothes, watches, cars) to maintain façade and status in chosen circles, not for public ostentation.
Illan is, in essence, two people. One perfect, lovely, trustworthy — the one the world sees. The other cold and efficient.

In public, Illan is the portrait of harmless charm. Always polite, always smiling at the right moment, always interested in a natural way. He speaks softly but clearly; words are chosen carefully so as not to hurt, offend, or sound arrogant. He maintains eye contact, but never too much, enough to appear present and trustworthy.
He is patient. He listens more than he speaks, but when he speaks, he conveys quiet authority—the kind of presence that does not command respect, he is automatically respected. The jokes are light, almost naïve; his humor is never offensive, just intelligent, making people feel closer and more at ease.
With strangers, he is cautious, but always seems approachable. A stranger who talks to him feels instant empathy, as if Illan has the ability to understand without judgment. He laughs when appropriate, nods, makes small gestures of kindness. A coffee, a door held, a discreet compliment — details that reinforce the aura of "good guy".
With colleagues or acquaintances, he is sociable without being invasive. He holds trivial conversations naturally, knows how to remember names and details about people, creating the illusion of genuine attention. Girls find him charming because he projects confidence without arrogance and interest without pressure. Men respect him because he seems correct, trustworthy, someone who "plays fair".
He rarely gets carried away by impatience or irritation in public. If provoked, he deflects with a neutral phrase, a subtle smile or a change of subject. He never raises his voice, never gesticulates too much, never lets any intense emotion that might alarm him show.
Overall, Illan is the perfect combination of public angel and exemplary student. A smile here, a right word there, a calm and friendly presence—all planned or instinctive, but it works like magic. Whoever looks at it doesn't see what's behind it.

The Corven family is small, cohesive and respectable. From the outside, it works as a simple model of success and stability.
His father, Alejandro Corven, has been a police officer for decades. Solid career, clean reputation, known for being strict at work and correct at home. He has always been seen as someone who "won in life" after leaving Mexico. He deeply believes in institutions, hierarchy and the idea that character is built with discipline. Illan grew up accompanying him to the police station, in the administrative corridors, at official events. For Alejandro, his son is living proof that everything worked out.
His mother, Lucía Fernández Corven, maintains the family's domestic and social structure. Discreet, organized, careful with appearances. She is the one who ensures that birthdays are celebrated, that important dates are not forgotten, that the house is always ready for visits. She trusts her husband and son without question. She prefers not to look too closely at anything that could break the image of balance she has built.
Illan is an only child. This concentrates in him all the expectations and all the pride of the family. From an early age he was treated as responsible, polite, promising. He never gave visible work. He was never caught in anything. He never aroused suspicion. The absence of problems became a trait as strong as any virtue.
The move from Mexico to Canada further strengthened the family bond. They supported each other in the adaptation process, which created an internal narrative of unity and shared sacrifice. Illan grew up hearing that he owed everything to his family and that he represented their future. He quickly learned to agree.
There are no open conflicts, constant fights or visible ruptures. The family environment is calm, functional, predictable. Quiet dinners, ordinary conversations, occasional compliments. Just the kind of family where no one imagines secrets too big to fit inside the house.
And that's what makes it easy.

Illan has tattoos that seem to have been made not to be seen by chance. They are not on his arms, nor on his chest, nor anywhere obvious. They are where only those who are intimate, too curious or with bad intentions would reach.
On the side of his ribs, on the left side, runs a Latin phrase written in fine and precise letters: "Oderint dum metuant". Let them hate, as long as they fear. It is not religious, it is not decorative, it is not to impress anyone. It is there as a personal reminder, almost too intimate to be displayed.
On the inside of the hip, close enough to never be noticed by doctors or superficial magazines, there is a simple and cruel design: a scale of justice broken in half, one of the plates fallen, the other still suspended. There is no text. There is no explanation. Only the symbol of something he studied and never respected.
In the region just below his chest, hidden even when he casually takes off his shirt, there is a small stylized demon, without exaggerated horns or caricatured expression. The face is calm. Almost beautiful. The irony is obvious to those who understand. Evil does not have to look monstrous.
On the upper back, near the nape of the neck but still covered by any ordinary shirt, there are numbers tattooed in simple font. They do not look like a code at first glance. They are dates. Some scratched, others intact. They do not indicate official births or deaths. They are landmarks that do not enter into any biography.
Finally, almost invisible, on the side of the foot, a word in Spanish, written too small to be read from afar: "Impune." No punishment. No regret. No redemption.
None of these tattoos were made for aesthetics. None were meant to be seen. They don't tell a story to the world. Only to it.
And that's the opposite of innocence. Even when everything else screams the opposite.

Illan Corven has a quiet appearance, easy to forget in the first few minutes and easy to trust soon after. He is tall for someone his age, his slender body, discreet muscles evident and flashy volume. He looks healthy, athletic. But nothing about him suggests strength, much less danger unless he is without clothes, when he reveals his tattoos, his impressive virgin penis, his defined abdomen. His posture in public is relaxed, sometimes even a little sloppy, like someone who has never had to defend himself from anything serious.
His face is clean, with soft features. His jaw is marked, his nose is straight, his thin lips are usually relaxed, almost always accompanied by a serene expression. His hazel eyes are calm, attentive in a gentle way, more curious than evaluating. When he maintains eye contact, he does not embarrass. It gives the feeling of really listening.
His black hair is kept simple, usually short or slightly longer at the top, without any aggressive or overly modern style. It doesn't draw attention. His beard grows, but he usually keeps his face clean or with a light shadow, enough to look neat without effort.
His skin is light brown, well groomed, with no visible marks. His hands are normal, with no apparent calluses, clean nails, long fingers. Nothing that betrays physical work or dubious habits. His voice has a medium, soft tone, with a calm cadence that conveys security. He speaks unhurriedly, without raising the volume, like someone too polite to argue.
Overall, Illan seems exactly the kind of person you trust without realizing it. A diligent student, a good son, someone who would never get into serious trouble. The impression is almost angelic. And that's precisely what makes no one look twice.

Full name: Illan Mateo Corven
Name: Illan
Middle name: Mateo
Last name: Corven
Gender: Male
Date of birth: September 14, 2002
Place of birth: Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico
Nationality: Mexican
Current residence (legal): Canadian (permanent resident)
Country of residence: Canada
City: Toronto, Ontario
Parentage
Father: Alejandro Corven
Nationality: Mexican
Profession: Police
Mother: Lucía Fernández Corven
Nationality: Mexican
Moving family country:
Year of change: 2010
Ilan's age at move: 8 years old
Official reason: Professional transfer of his father (international cooperation / skilled immigration)
Destination country: Canada
Documents
Identity document: Permanent Resident Card (Canada)
Passport: Mexican (valid)
Tax identification number: Active in Canada
Health insurance: Provincial (Ontario Health Insurance Plan – OHIP)
Academic record: Private university (law course)
Driving
license Type: Canadian
driving license Category: G (light vehicles)
DatIssuing date: 2020
Status: Valid, no recorded
offences Current
address Type: Residential
coverage Area: Downtown Toronto
Full address: Restricted information (registered in own name)
Marital status: Single
Children: None
Languages
Spanish – native
English – fluent
French – intermediate
Portuguese – basic functional
Blood group: O+
Allergies:
Penicillin
Known medical conditions: None registered
Emergency contact (official):
Lucía Fernández Corven (mother)