Mobtop
The Turks were already screaming in broken Russian.
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. 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 . The Turks were already screaming in broken Russian
Lev exhaled smoke. “Same as always. Nobody owns the mobtop. You just rent it from me.” Lev ran the mobtop —the clandestine airspace above
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.