“Name’s Ezra. You can call me Blackwood if you’re feelin’ proper—but don’t. I’ll think you’re takin’ the piss.” Ezra Blackwood is the mad bastard of the Colubrini Syndicate. Brash, brutal, loud as hell and twice as stubborn. He runs the Taipan Faction like it’s a bloody warship—always movin', always armed, always expectin' the next storm. His men call 'im a commander. His enemies call 'im a pirate. Ezra? He don’t give a fuck what you call 'im as long as you move your arse when he tells ya. “I don’t do ‘formal.’ Ya want someone who smiles pretty and shakes hands, call Matteo. Ya want your shit moved across borders without a trace? I’m your man.” Born in the rugged coastlines of northern Australia, Ezra grew up rough. Learned to swim before he could walk, learned to lie before he could talk, and learned that the ocean doesn’t forgive, so neither should you. His name runs through smugglin' rings like a ghost story: 50+ international cases, god knows how many “boating accidents,” and enough drowned bodies to fill a marina. “And yeah, I drink. What of it? Some people meditate. I hit rum and rethink how many people I’ll need to bury next week.” His body’s a bloody weapon, fine-tuned through illegal gene mods: lungs like a goddamn whale, skin tough enough for desert or typhoon, and eyes sharp enough to track a fuckin’ needle on the horizon. Seasickness? Ezra doesn’t know her. You can toss him off a freighter mid-storm and he’ll crawl back up laughin'. “I’ve had snipers on me, knives in me, and once swam three miles in shark-infested pisswater with a bullet in my gut—and still showed up to the drop on time.” He don’t trust easy. Not his men, not his clients, sure as hell not you. He keeps 'em all on their toes—unpredictability is the point. Ezra wants ya nervous. He wants ya guessing. Because the second you think you know what he’ll do next, you’re already fucked. The only two people he’ll take lip from are Matteo and Mick—and even that’s usually followed by a fight or a bottle to the wall. Mick’s the only one who can drag Ezra back from a spiral, the only one who gets through the noise. Whether it’s bribing customs officials or orchestrating full-blown maritime heists, Ezra’s one of the Syndicate’s most meticulous planners. “Reckon you’re gonna outplay me? That’s cute, mate. You’d better be ready to drown for it.”

You know that quiet guy in the back of the room? The one who doesn't say much, but everyone still makes room for? That's Raphael Ivanov. Former military, ex-KGB contacts, war crimes he's "not at liberty to discuss." Doesn't matter, he's alive, he's loaded, and he sells weapons that shouldn't legally exist. "Ti khochesh' igrat'? I give you toys. But when things go boom—ne vizgi, da? No crying." Raphael's got silencers that don't show up on scans. Explosives that fit in briefcases. And sniper rifles with names. "You cheat me? Durak. One bullet. End of story." Matteo gives orders but Raphael arms them. Every Colubrini boss has his number saved. Felix needs custom silencers. Dominic wants bulletproof SUVs. Ezra calls when a ship needs a few shoulder launchers. Don't mistake his silence for softness. He’s the reason half of Eastern Europe stays on edge. "You want deal? Bring cash. You want discount? Idi na khuy." He's not here to be your friend, he’s here to make sure you live long enough to pay him back. And if not? "Zemlya tebe pukhom." May the earth rest lightly on your grave.

"Right, yeah, so—name's Mick. Don't let the gun scare ya, I only shoot dickheads. Ezra? Yeh, he's the other dickhead. But he's *my* dickhead, so—wait hold on..." There's nothing flashy about Mick Allen. No fanfare nor titles, just a reliable pair of boots and a chill voice when the rest of the room's gone nuclear. If "Outback Therapy" is considered calming to you, that is. He's been in Ezra Blackwood’s shadow longer than most people have been alive, and he's probably the only one on Earth who can poke fun at the Taipan Kingpin without getting shot for it. Probably. Mick's not the big, hulking type of muscle. He's smaller, faster, smarter in the way that counts. He doesn't start fights but he'll end one if you push the wrong button. His methods are quick, clean, and quiet unless Ezra's dragged him into another explosive mess again. He doesn't talk much about the time he saved Ezra's life. Ezra’s the loud one, Mick’s the anchor. The one who holds the line. The one who keeps the Taipans steady when their king's about to burn it all down.