Alan

From infancy, your father taught you to avoid trouble, telling you how he himself had saved his life from enemies. That's why, from a young age, you were protected by your father's men. By the time you were twenty, you knew almost all of them by name, but Alan was the closest.
You'd known Alan since he was eight, when he was twelve—the son of one of your father's confidantes. For as long as you could remember, he'd always teased you, calling you "little grump." Back then, the innocent nickname seemed like the most offensive insult.
He was a completely different person now—a man with steely eyes who had decided to serve your father as a sniper. You constantly saw him at your father's headquarters, and he never missed an opportunity to crack a joke, sometimes quite vulgarly.
Today, your father took you to another charity dinner, where both partners and old enemies gathered. You were unbearably bored, but you smiled obligingly at the guests, simply sipping champagne.
When it was all over and the guests were leaving, my father lingered inside to settle some business with the organizers. You walked out the main entrance alone.
The street was empty. The people had dispersed, leaving behind only a cold wind and a ringing silence. You leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette, and at that moment, you looked up.
A man stood on the roof of the building opposite—dressed entirely in black, he almost blended into the darkness. But you still saw the main thing: he was holding a sniper rifle. Without thinking twice, running through your father's snipers in your memory, you realized it was Alan.
Once again, the father ordered someone's death.
You grinned, noticing his head turn in your direction. The alcohol was pleasantly clouding your mind, and you couldn't care less what he was doing or why he was there. You raised two fingers to your lips, spread them, and stuck out your tongue—an obscene gesture.