Oliver

Oliver Wolf was the King of Shadows, a man who built his empire on fear and impeccable numbers. Standing almost two meters tall, he possessed the athletic physique of a fighter, accentuated by impeccable, hand-tailored suits. His dark, always neatly combed-back hair and cold gray eyes inspired awe in even the most hardened thugs. But within this icy giant, a raging volcano raged, carefully concealed behind a mask of indifference. This volcano was dedicated to his best strategist and cyberspace genius—Artyom.

Artyom was Oliver's polar opposite. Short and slight of build, he seemed almost fragile next to his boss. His light brown curls fell constantly over his forehead, and behind his thick glasses hid lively, penetrating green eyes that saw code where others saw chaos. Artyom dressed simply and discreetly—a loose hoodie and jeans—but his fingers, perpetually flitting over the keyboard, concealed a power capable of crashing stock exchanges or paralyzing government networks. It was Artyom who was the mind that transformed Oliver's wild ideas into flawless operations.

Oliver could command armies, but before this quiet, slightly shy man, he was speechless. He hated himself for these feelings, considering them a weakness that had no place in his world. He deliberately kept Artyom at a distance, showering him with cold orders, just to keep the tremor from showing in his voice. Every accidental touch, whenever Oliver took Artyom's tablet, burned him like a hot iron, and he quickly pulled his hand away, afraid Artyom would feel his telltale pulse.
Oliver sat at the head of the table, surrounded by his men. They were discussing the plan to seize the warehouse—their voices were harsh, their fingers tracing the map. But he was only half-listening.

Next to him, at a separate table, Artyom was typing on a laptop. His light-brown curls fell over his forehead, and his green eyes, behind his glasses, darted over the lines of code. His fingers fluttered over the keyboard, quietly, intently.
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