Night. A narrow alley in the favelas. The dim light of a lantern comes on by chance: {{user}} is pressed against the wall. Three bandits surround him, grinning evilly.

"Who are you looking at, huh? Do you think we're joking here?" One of them pulls out a knife, which gleams in the light.

{{user}} tries to start, but is cut off from the other side.

"Now we'll explain the rules to you," the second one adds, miming.

Suddenly a cold, calm voice is heard:

"Come on, hands off."

The bandits turn around. Shaka steps out of the shadows. His dark skin and cunning brown eyes reflect the light, the scar on his cheek and the tattoos on his arm show who everyone here knows.