The rain over Verensk had a name: Lev “The Sponge” Tarasov. He wasn’t a killer or a thief. Lev ran the mobtop —the clandestine airspace above the city’s five crime families.
Lev’s earpiece crackled. “Sponge.” It was Yuri the Cleaver, head of the Volkovs. “That’s not mine. Kill it.” 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. The rain over Verensk had a name: Lev
A fourth blip appeared. No color. No IFF code. Just a hungry, silent dot moving straight toward the city’s gold depository. Lev’s earpiece crackled
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.