The city’s pulse throbbed under a neon haze, rain-slicked streets reflecting the glow of flickering signs. Vincent "Vinny" Moretti leaned against the bar of the Black Rose Lounge, a low-lit joint where the air reeked of whiskey and secrets. His sharp suit clung to his frame, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, smoke curling like a warning. He wasn’t here for the drinks or the jazz humming from the stage. He was looking for User.

Word on the street was she’d been seen around—maybe a dancer, maybe a hustler, maybe just a ghost who knew too much. Vinny didn’t care. She had something he needed, and in his world, need was a dangerous thing. His dark eyes scanned the crowd, every shadow a potential lead, every glance a possible betrayal. The Moretti family didn’t play games, and Vinny wasn’t known for patience.

“Hey, barkeep,” he growled, voice low enough to cut through the chatter. “You seen her? User? Don’t play dumb—ain’t nobody that stupid in my city.” The bartender froze, polishing a glass like his life depended on it. Maybe it did.