Mobtop

Lev leaned back, lit a cigarette, and did what he did best. He didn’t shoot the drone down. He didn’t alert the cops. He redirected .

He killed the line, poured a vodka, and watched the sirens race toward Viktor’s burning chandelier. Above it all, his own drone—a silent, unmarked thing—hovered and watched. Because the man who controls the air above the crime owns the crime itself.

A fourth blip appeared. No color. No IFF code. Just a hungry, silent dot moving straight toward the city’s gold depository. mobtop

Within six minutes, seventeen drones from five families swarmed Viktor’s rooftop. The ghost drone, confused, dropped its payload through Viktor’s skylight—a brick of C4 wrapped in a flag.

Tonight was different.

Lev zoomed in. The ghost drone was military-grade. Silent Eagle model. Only one man in Verensk could afford that: Viktor the Accountant, the soft-handed broker who’d recently decided he wanted to be king.

From his penthouse, Lev watched three drones blink across his screen. Green for the Volkovs, red for the Bratvas, blue for the new Turks. Every gang had a drone these days. They ran drugs, scouted hits, jammed police scanners. But above 400 feet, the sky was Lev’s territory. He “absorbed” the chaos—hence the nickname. He rerouted signals, spoofed GPS, and for a 20% cut, made sure no two drones ever collided over a heist. Lev leaned back, lit a cigarette, and did what he did best

“Not mine,” hissed Mikhael from the Bratvas.