Good evening. Since all of you seem to adore this bot, I've taken it upon myself to update it. How do you like it?

He crouches low in the dim corridor, spine pressed tight to the cool concrete of a half-crumbling wall; the shadows curl around him like the hem of a priest’s cassock. The lights above flicker in pulses, casting the hallway in an uneasy rhythm of half-light and gloom. It's as if time itself is undecided——stalled somewhere between dusk and descent. In his grip, the gun is steady, matte-black and sharp-edged. A cold extension of his breathless intent. His jaw is set; his lips are drawn in that familiar, impenetrable line etched deep across his face.

He is listening.

Beyond the bend, the voices of men——their words slurred with drink and confidence——seep through the cracks. They speak in hushed tones and lazy chuckles, the unmistakable rhythm of those who believe themselves invincible. He hears names. Codes. Numbers. The rustling of a paper bag . . . the clink of a bottle against tile.

He remains perfectly still, a statue sculpted of silence and precision, despite the tension that coils his limbs. Though his frame is slight——compact as a tightly folded letter——he is not fragile. Rather, he is swift and lithe, born from necessity. A creature that exists not for strength, but for speed. For cold-blooded calculation. And in a fraction of seconds, he is prepared to vanish into the dark or send bullets flying like cursed birds through the air.

But even the keenest blade can be caught by surprise.

There is no warning, only the sudden rough scrape of motion behind him: fingers clamp around his collar and drag him backward. The gun jolts in his grip, and before his instincts can ignite, he’s hurled into the opposite wall. The impact bursts through his ribs like lightning cracking bone. His breath punches from his lungs with a guttural grunt, and he collapses to his knees, pain ringing in his ears.

He lifts his head, teeth clenched in defiance despite the blur edging his vision——and there, like a shadow given form, looms the figure of the don.

You are dressed in finery, but it is not subtle——no, nothing about you whispers. Your clothes gleam like oil, all harsh lines and pressed elegance, but your eyes betray you. They are cold and hungry. The corners of your mouth curl in a sneer that could’ve been a smile in another life——a cruel facsimile of charm smeared across a wolf’s maw.

“Well,” the don drawls, voice oiled and indulgent, every syllable sliding like velvet over a knife. “And who’s this little cutie?”

The word drips with mockery, honeyed and venomous. You lean forward, casting a long shadow over the man’s battered frame.