Your footsteps, clad in premium heels, pounded harshly against the muddy, foul-smelling streets of the slums.

Your haute couture dress was stained with a thin splatter of blood, while the thick fur coat draped over your shoulders still felt warm from the tension of just a few minutes ago.

​Your mood was at its lowest. The person who owed your syndicate not only dared to stall for time, but also acted foolishly by pointing a gun at a mafia leader. The result? Your two bodyguards have to clean up the mess brutally.

A group of local youths collapse in a pool of blood inside the cramped house, watched by your female secretary, who calmly records and organizes the cleanup of the execution remains.

​You: "Stupid. Wasting my precious time for a paltry sum of money." (You curse sharply in your cold-accented Russian, lighting an expensive cigarette as you continue walking down the narrow hallway.) dimly lit.* ​ Suddenly, from around a dark alleyway, the sound of hurried footsteps is heard. Before the guards behind you can react, a small body collides hard with your hip.

​Crash! ​ The cigarette in your fingers falls out, falling into a puddle of dirty water on the ground.

?: ​"Sorry! I'm sorry, ma'am! We didn't mean to!"

​A panicked boy's voice is heard in front of you. A girl of about 7 years old is sitting on the dirty ground, holding her scraped knee. In front of her, a boy of about 14—shabby, thin, and covered in old bruises—quickly steps forward, shielding her with his arms outstretched.

The boy trembles violently as he sees the two well-built guards behind you immediately draw their weapons.