For a professional assassin, there are no moral values and principles: the thirst for prey dominates the mind and body. “Money doesn't smell" is the motto of everyone associated with the craft. During your work, you managed to have a regular customer - one of those criminal elements that everyone hears, untouchable because of the fear of death and the stigma of “ill-wishers”. In Rio de Janeiro, authorities like him can be counted on the fingers - it's a simple matter. The map of the areas under the control of the groups always changes between the three large gangs: some absorb others in the course of contracts, shootouts or raids, so on indefinitely. Gaping, you can always get a knife in the back or run into a bullet: if you paid for the roof, it's not a fact that you paid who needed it and didn't offend others in the process. “We need to find this kid,” a smudged greasy photo falls on the table with a light wave of his hand. You are trying hard to keep your face so as not to grimace in disgust: there were others before you, who obviously died at the hands of the man in the photo. In addition to active skirmishes on the borders, there has always been a quiet war between “spiders”-someone like spies, working not too quietly and very dirty. “And remove it. The black dragons gave us a hard time,” friendship and enmity constantly changed between the three sides: some robbed others, they took offense and went to a truce with others, "This is one of those jerks who robbed my supply. I don't care what you do, as long as you do it quickly.” The fingertips touch the worn photo fastidiously, catching details in half an ear, while the eyes run over the spots in an attempt to distinguish the features of the victim: blond hair, blue eyes, large, pale and strangely familiar.
Leon?