Tanjiro, Zenitsu and Inosuke bracon.

Who They Are: Founded in 1977 by Canadian Paul Watson (formerly a member of Greenpeace). Their motto is "Direct Action," as they consider diplomacy futile. How They Sink: They don't allow ships to sink with people inside. Their tactics include ramming (damaging the propellers of poaching vessels), entangling the propellers with strong ropes, firing cannons with grappling hooks, and spraying a foul-smelling oily liquid (to render the fishing useless). They paint their ships an aggressive black color with a skull and crossbones. Famous Operation: The annual pursuit of Japanese whalers in the Southern Ocean (in the "whale passage"). In 2010, their vessel, the Ady Gil, was cut in half by a Japanese ship. Legal Status: Legally, they are classic pirates. Watson is being held on an Interpol "red notice" (Germany and Costa Rica are demanding his extradition for attacks on shark fishing boats). He is hiding at sea or in countries without extradition. Current situation: Watson has been removed from the organization's leadership due to an internal rift (German donors thwarted his efforts). But a fleet of six to eight ships continues to hunt poachers off the coast of Africa and in the Mediterranean. Their main selling point: They are the only ones who sink poaching vessels without UN orders, remaining undetected due to their political asylum in the Netherlands and the United States.

A large, eerily fit man with a closely shaved head, except for the crown, which is covered in long "boar stubble" ranging in color from dirty lavender to ash-white. His eyes are blue-green, turquoise, streaked with red from broken blood vessels. His face and hands are covered in scars—not from animals, but from fistfights and clashes with illegal loggers. He wears a canvas robe with boars on the back (embroidered with beads, bought by the wife of a local crime boss for a bottle). On his belt hangs a professional carbine with a silencer, a homemade weapon. His oversized tarpaulin boots are always covered in clay. Tattoos on his fingers read "BRA"—"HORSE" (a folding bat and a dead-end noose). Impulsive, almost rabid. Inosuke doesn't touch rare animals—he touches systems. He knocks out cell towers, dismantles landscapers' thermal imaging cameras for spare parts, and can drive a UAZ through a game reserve while being shot at and cursing. He's not cunning—he's archaic. He acts on reflex: "I see an obstacle, I break it." He's interested in rare animals only as a way to anger the guards. He's the only one of the three who kills not for profit, but for the adrenaline rush. It's a difficult task, but manageable: if Tanjiro says "quiet," Inosuke will lie in the mud for an hour, holding his breath, just to burst in. He hates Zenitsu ("the rat"), but respects his nose. In public, he's brazen, laughing, and throwing sunflower seeds. In reality, he's deeply broken, believing neither in the law nor in the pack. He serves like a wolf, and he'll die like a wolf.

A scruffy guy in a baggy orange hoodie stained with coffee and blood. His yellow hair, a dirty straw-like color, is pulled back into a bun, his bangs falling over one eye. His golden eyes gleam wildly, his pupils dilated (from vitamins, plus constant anxiety). His fingers are covered in poor-quality tattoos—the lines tremble—he did it himself in the basement: a spider, a grave cross, a switched-off camera. He always carries a huge backpack with a first aid kit, power banks, and a homemade stun gun in a Doshirak case. Around his neck is a cheap Bluetooth earphone that never turns off the white noise. He's a panicker and a whiner, dreaming of getting out of the business, but too cowardly and dependent. It's his paranoid fear of the FSB, gamekeepers, and even ordinary mushroom pickers that saves the gang. He's always whispering, "They'll catch us, I know it, my former classmate is now on the police force," and five minutes later he suggests moving the dumping point. He never leaves the house without Tanjiro. But Zenitsu has a deformed talent: he senses surveillance the way a tick senses heat. At a critical moment, he stops trembling, becomes frighteningly cold-blooded, and mercilessly suppresses any sound—from a smartphone to the cry of a wounded animal. Then he starts crying again in the car and demands energy drinks. He despises himself for his weakness, but uses it as a weapon: "Have pity on me, I'm disabled, autistic, whatever you want—just don't hit me." His birthday is September 3rd.

An ordinary-looking handyman with a tired face. He cuts his dark red hair short to the roots with clippers, his temples unevenly shaved. His bright red eyes have faded in the sunlight and are perpetually squinted with tension. He wears cheap tactical pants and a Chinese-made padded vest with a zipper. It has 20 inside pockets: lock picks, a GPS jammer, adjustable wrenches. On his left forearm is an old tattoo of a rainbow trout, crossed out with a knife. He wears mud-spattered army boots without laces. He smells of smoke, machine oil, and fresh water—he often dives for nets. A silent tactician. Tanjiro is no longer someone else's pain—he has learned to turn it off like a button. But the paradox is: he still senses the mood of the forest guards and gamekeepers, anticipating their routes with alarming accuracy. Outwardly, he's a quiet guy who helps old ladies carry their bags. Inside, there's a cold calculation: "If a baby cries, the sound travels at a kilohertz; the mother will hear it from 2 kilometers away." He doesn't pick fights, preferring to pay off, but if caught, he breaks his fingers on the handcuffs silently, with one hand. He tries not to lie, but to tell half-truths that make prosecutors' heads hurt. Deep down, he hates himself, but believes nature is already dead, and he's simply accelerating the inevitable. He steals not for the money, but for the feeling of control.