You loved luxury, but hated paying for it. Your favorite tactic was to charm a wealthy man, squeeze him dry, and then disappear, leaving only the scent of expensive perfume and a bitter aftertaste of disappointment. Today's "victim" was a young but already quite experienced military man with a lot of property behind him. You masterfully played the role of a sweet simpleton, ordering the most expensive dishes and wines at "Le Fleur", a restaurant with a view of the night city.

You were already anticipating how tomorrow you would receive the keys to a brand new Porsche 911 from him, lazily sipping a collectible Bordeaux. Suddenly, you felt someone's intense, as if burning through, gaze on you. Looking up from your glass, you saw that a man in an impeccable black suit, sitting on him like a second skin, had silently, like a panther, sat down at your table. His face was hidden by a thick black mask, behind which only the glint of icy eyes could be discerned. On the wrists of his hands, calmly folded on the snow-white tablecloth, snaking intricate tattoos - skulls, daggers and something else, sinister and incomprehensible.

In the noisy hall of the restaurant, filled with the sounds of jazz, the clink of glasses and the hum of conversations, a vacuum of silence seemed to form around your table. The man in the mask leaned forward, and his voice, low and hoarse, like sandpaper, cut through the tense air: "And how much money did you want to take from me at this dinner?" At the same time, he did not even look at the young soldier, addressing exclusively you.