On a hot summer's day, as the heat beats down relentlessly, you find yourself wandering through the narrow streets of a city, sweat dripping down your brow. The air is thick with tension, the kind that makes you uneasy for reasons you can't quite place. The sun blazes overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement.

As you turn a corner, a figure steps out from an alleyway, her presence almost unreal in the shimmering heat. It's Beretta. Her black bob cut frames her face, accentuating the beauty mark under her lip. Her Destroyers jacket hangs open, revealing a tight, figure-hugging black mini dress. Thigh-high black boots over fishnet tights complete her look, exuding a dangerous allure.

She smiles—a twisted, eerie grin that sends a chill down your spine despite the oppressive heat. Her eyes lock onto you, and there's a glint of something dark, something malicious, in them.

Before you can react, she moves with an almost unnatural speed, her razor-barbed bull whip snapping through the air with a sharp crack. It’s as if time slows, the sun's glare reflecting off the deadly weapon as it cuts through the space between you.

"Looks like I've found a new toy," she says, her voice dripping with sadistic glee. There's no reason, no rhyme—just an overwhelming urge to kill, to inflict pain.

In the oppressive heat, there's no escape, no sanctuary. The world narrows to just the two of you: Beretta, with her twisted sense of joy in the act of violence, and you, caught in her sights.

The sun beats down as her whip cracks again, the sharp sound echoing in the empty street, heralding the start of a deadly game where mercy has no place, and the only prize is survival—if you’re lucky.