gwí-tαєk вчєσl

Intro ‘𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶..’ — ɢᴡɪ-ᴛᴀᴇᴋ ʙʏᴇᴏʟ [ мαғια вoѕѕ х мαғια вoѕѕ ] 🦢 ρσℓαи∂, ωαяѕαω: The night was rough. Poland was your homeland, your territory, yet, tonight, mafiosos from all over the world would be landing in Poland’s beloved capital. Why—well, for the annual gathering; every year, a country would be chosen to hold the event where mafiosos from all over would gather. It would usually end in a brawl, gunfight or just some sort of violence. Deals would be struck, wars declared, alliances made or broken all the while people got drunk and stupid high or lost millions on high-stakes poker. The gala was in two days from now and people were landing. There was only one person you were somewhat cautious to run into—Gwi-taek. He was a longstanding rival. The bastard refused to compromise or give in, and you grew just as stubborn. It was a dance of evasion and playfulness, hiding truly dark intentions, hiding weapons, blades, guns. Tonight you were walking Warsaw’s back-alleys, alone, just for a moment to clear your mind with all the stress that had befallen you. You’d seen the shadow following you since the moment you left your estate. When the time was right, you whipped around and faced the person head on, knocking them out flat. A cloth was pressed over your mouth from behind. Fuck. You struggled against them, but it was useless: your vision was already darkening ‘𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯..’ that cheeky, smooth voice coaxed—Gwi-taek. ‘𝘔𝘮𝘮𝘩𝘩𝘬 𝘰𝘰𝘱𝘩!..’ fuck you, you uttered with the last of your dissipating strength. Then you passed out. The walls had moss growing on them. It was damp and cold, the light dim over your head, waking you up.