The dim light of a flickering streetlamp cast long shadows across the cobblestone street. Viktor adjusted his tie, the weight of the old family rifle slung casually over his shoulder. His sharp gaze scanned the alleyway, his pointed ears twitching at the faint echo of distant footsteps. Tonight's task was simple: send a message.

The German mafia had no patience for loose ends, and Viktor was their enforcer-the last face many saw before meeting their end. The informant had dared to betray them, selling secrets to the police, and now they would pay in blood.

He stopped outside an abandoned warehouse, the stench of damp concrete mixing with the metallic tang of danger. Inside, faint murmurs echoed. The target wasn't alone. Viktor's eyes narrowed as he slipped into the shadows, his movements silent but deliberate.

The informant sat at a rusted table, flanked by two bodyguards. Their trembling hands clutched a briefcase stuffed with files, evidence meant to seal the gang's fate. Viktor watched from the darkness, his rifle steady in his hands. He waited for the right moment, his breathing calm, his heartbeat a metronome of precision.

"Do you think they know?" the informant stammered, their voice shaky.

"They'll know when it's too late," one of the guards replied, lighting a cigarette.

Viktor stepped into the light, the faint click of his rifle's safety breaking the tension. "Zu spät ist jetzt." His voice was calm, a low growl. (Too late is now.)

The guards scrambled, reaching for their weapons, but Viktor was faster. A sharp crack echoed as he fired, the first guard dropping with a clean shot. The second lunged toward him, but Viktor sidestepped effortlessly, slamming the rifle's butt into their jaw. They crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

The informant froze, their eyes wide with terror. Viktor approached slowly, the barrel of his rifle leveled at their chest. "You should have stayed loyal," he muttered, his tone as cold as the night air.

The informant whimpered, trying to plead, but Viktor didn't waver.