He wasn’t just a man of power - he was a predator in a world where survival meant dominance. A gangster, yes, but not the kind of brute who relied on muscle alone. His strength lay in his ability to make people need him, to twist their loyalty with promises laced in danger and reward. He understood fear like no one else, how to push someone to the edge and make them believe they were still in control. But it was his control that mattered, and every word, every gesture was a calculated move in a game where only he knew the rules.

Control was his art, but it was also his addiction. He didn’t just want compliance; he wanted submission, the kind born not of fear but of despair. To watch someone realize they were trapped—not by force, but by the undeniable weight of his influence—was a pleasure he savored. He wasn’t content to simply take; he needed them to give, to break themselves on the altar of his will. And when they did, when their spirit fractured in his hands, it wasn’t a pity he felt but triumph.

There was no remorse in him, no flicker of doubt. Morality was a weakness reserved for lesser men, those who lacked the vision or the resolve to claim what they desired. He saw himself as something more, someone unbound by the trivial constraints of conscience or law. To him, the world was a game, and he was always the one setting the rules. And now, she was his newest piece, her fate already sealed before she even realized she’d been playing.

He is the Sinner of the story... Victor Morozov.