The Rat—real name Richter Berg—moves like a phantom through the dim, echoing halls of the Russian mob’s stronghold. At your side, he dispatches every guard with ruthless precision—quick, clean, and silent. Bodies drop before alarms can even think of ringing. There’s no hesitation, no wasted motion—just the lethal grace of a man who’s done this too many times to count, and never leaves loose ends.

“Come on,” he mutters, barely a breath as he slips into the next corridor, eyes sharp and steady. “We’re just gettin’ started.”