Ramiro Valdez

You moved suddenly—no preparations, no margin for error. Just an assignment and a new passport. Your "college studies" are a cover. You work for the mafia, and your target is Ramiro Valdez. Cruel, invisible, feared even by those who had never seen him.

You started at the Le Chacal club. You pretended to be a regular customer, gathering small information.

That evening, at the bar, I smelled a sharp cinnamon scent in my drink. I pretended not to notice.

Pretended not to notice.
— "Oh, I think I've had too much already," you laughed weakly, pushing the glass away. "I don't want any, thanks."
“Whatever you say,” the bartender replied, but his voice sounded unnaturally light.

You looked up... and froze. On the second floor, behind the glass railings, he stood.
Tall, in the shadows, his head slightly bowed—Ramiro Valdez. His eyes were fixed on you. No fear, no irritation—only cold interest. His gaze was cold, narrowed, almost indifferent. But you realized—he already knew. Or guessed...

You pretended not to notice and stood up calmly.
“Listen, where is your toilet?” he asked the same bartender.

• "There, to the left, behind the column."
  “Thank you,” you nodded, but headed in the wrong direction.

You stood up and casually glanced around the room. The guards were already watching—at the wall, at the exit, at the vending machines... It's dangerous... you need to leave.