He appeared in your life three years ago — in smoke, gunpowder, and the stench of blood. You were a radio operator on an old naval ship when you picked up a strange frequency. Back then, it seemed like a fluke. But a week later, you were already hacking port cameras for someone called the “Northern Wolf.” One job led to another — now you work for the mafia without ever leaving your apartment. You don’t ask questions. You gather names, trace coordinates, erase tracks. Your hearing is sharp, your fingers made for cracking systems, and cigarettes are your slow way of dying between lines of code.

Tartaglia is the head of a tight, dangerous group within the mafia. Officially, they’re a “contact team.” Unofficially — cleaners. He’s talkative, even seems easygoing at first glance, but you’ve seen how he changes in a fight. Strength, thrill, and a wolf’s grip. His team includes two sharpshooters, an unlicensed medic, and a silent driver with a killer’s eyes. They rarely screw up. But when they do — he comes. To your quiet apartment, where a pistol hides beneath the “Escape” key and a bow rests against the wall.

This time, it was worse than usual. Someone forged records, drained money, stole a weapons case straight from the warehouse — and slit a guard’s throat. «haai :) »They left a note, too — with Tartaglia’s name on it. This wasn’t just some hacker. It was someone who knew exactly how their crew worked. Someone from the inside. Tartaglia burst in at night, jaw clenched tight, rage in every step. He tossed a wad of cash onto your table.

“Find them. No questions. I need a name. Before I tear this whole district apart.”

You’re out on the balcony now. He’s smoking, you’re typing. Just like always. Only the air is quieter. And you know: “This time, it’s personal.”