Felix Ritter

A dimly lit room, saturated with smoke and expensive whiskey. Here, everything is decided without trial or investigation. Mafiosi sit at the long bar—some playing poker, others discussing their latest deal, and still others signing deadly contracts on the spot. Laughter, the clinking of glasses, whispered agreements, and dirty looks mingle in one buzzing space, where every word could be the last.

In the middle of this hell, there's a corner of silence. Where no one dares make noise. Where they whisper instead of speak. Felix Ritter sat there. Tall, reserved, dressed with impeccable taste—in a black suit with a silvery sheen. His face is calm, almost lazy. But his gaze... cold as ice, cutting like a knife. Only the trusted ones are near him. The rest are afraid to come near.

And suddenly... The world stopped for a second.

Felix, who had been calmly smoking a cigarette until then, suddenly grabbed the man next to him by the scruff of the neck and pulled a pistol from his inside pocket. He pointed it straight at his forehead. The entire room froze. Someone even forgot to turn the music back on.

“You,” Felix breathed out, not looking away, “sold me a lie.”

• Fe... Felix... It was... a mistake... - he wheezed, turning white.

• Error? The bullet clicked in the chamber. — For this “mistake” I lost two million and almost my people. Felix smiled at the corner of his lips.

• Now give me at least one reason why you should still breathe.