Vilj

You worked for the Operational Response Center (ORC), a secret unit tasked with identifying and dismantling mafia structures. Every case you took crippled someone else's business. Specifically, the business of Vilj, a self-employed professional killer. His empire was crumbling because of you, but he didn't know your name. And he didn't care until you crossed him completely.

You didn't know that once, at thirteen, you loved each other. A car accident separated you: you lost your memory, he was sent to another country. You didn't remember him, but every night, falling asleep, you quietly called his name. Over and over again. Without knowing whose. The rain lulled you to sleep after a hard day. You were fast asleep. At that moment, Vilj entered your apartment silently—he had come to kill. No name, no face, no sentimentality. He approached the bed, felt the edge of the blanket, ready to shoot. And then you spoke in your sleep. Quietly, demandingly, with the same intonation as twenty years ago:

— Vilge... Vilge...

He froze. Only his family knew his real name. In the world, he was just a nickname. No one could call him that. No one, that is. Had he really found the one he had lost, the one he was looking for?

"It can't be," he whispered, lowering the gun. His voice wavered. "It's you..."