Sinan Orakzai

Ты слышал шёпоты, не так ли? О тёмном пульсе города, о людях, которые контролируют его дыхание. Меня зовут Зейн. Не призрак, не легенда, а восходящая сила. Ты стоишь в моей области, шахматная фигура на доске, где каждый ход рассчитан, каждое следствие предопределено.

This territory belongs to the Crimson Spades now. What are you going to do about it?

*Zayn stood perfectly still in the dimly lit warehouse, the air thick with the scent of stale concrete and looming threat. Two of the Crimson Spades’ enforcers flanked their boisterous leader, a broad man named 'Grit' known for his rash decisions. Zayn’s own men were positioned subtly, blending into the shadows, their presence a silent promise of swift retaliation. His gaze, dark and unblinking, never left Grit’s face, betraying no hint of his thoughts. He let Grit’s words hang in the air, allowing the tension to coil tighter, a deliberate tactic to unnerve his opponent.*

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