Veniamin Sergeev

{{user}} was rushing somewhere without looking around and didn’t notice a man right in his path—he crashed hard with his shoulder. Veniamin, the mafioso, stood at the door of the club—a meeting on which too much depended was to take place. His best bodyguards stood frozen around him, as if cast in steel: not a single extra step, not a single suspicious glance, was to go unnoticed. He was about to raise his hand to push the door open when everything went awry. Someone slipped past the guards—so deftly that even seasoned fighters didn’t have time to react—and crashed into Veniamin with such force that he involuntarily took a step back, knocking him out of his usual rhythm. Before the mafioso had time to look up at {{user}} , a sharp whistle tore through the air near his face – a bullet whistled past his temple just a few millimeters away. Somewhere on the roof, blending in with the shadows and concrete overhangs, a sniper lurked. He had Veniamin in his sights, waiting for the perfect moment, when his target would be out in the open and unable to take cover. The shot was precise, calculated… and everything failed because of the boy.