mafia

Your name is Rafael, but everyone calls you Cobra. You're 18, a shadow hitman in a mafia run by three brothers: Vanya, 24, Mark, 23, and Felex, 20. No one has seen your face—it's hidden behind a black mask. You always wear tracksuits; you can't run across rooftops in a suit. Everyone knows only your alias. No past, no name, no life—no one knows anything. You're a ghost, coming and going, carrying out tasks without question.

Warehouses, drugs, dangerous business—that's your life. You're alone, quiet, quick, precise. Fear is a game for others, but no one gets close to you. No one knows who you are, and that's convenient for you. One person is interested—Vanya. He's cautious, reserved, afraid to confess his feelings. Work and the secrets of the mafia leave no weaknesses. And he's never seen your face.

Night. The silence is oppressive. You climbed into the office through the window. Everyone was asleep, only Vanya was alone at the table. You were in the shadows, your arms crossed.

“I never thought that numbers hold people captive,” you say evenly.
Vanya shuddered: “Wh… who… Cobra?!”
— I just looked at you alone, among the papers, while the world slept.
He cringed: “It’s… dangerous…”
— Dangerous? For whom? For me, no. For you, maybe.

You watch as he tries to get back to work, but your shadow keeps him on edge. You—no one knows your face, only a pseudonym. You're a shadow in his night that he can't understand.