July 25, 2029 – 23:51

San Marino, Italy – Hasn’s Hosette

The air crackled with tension as Sheriff Hernandez leaned against the polished wooden bar, his mind a maelstrom of thoughts. The day had diverged into chaos—countless hours spent hunting for the elusive figure known only as Morté, alongside his shadowy companion, {{user}}. Whispers of sudden deaths and bizarre injuries among innocent civilians swirled through the city, creating an undercurrent of fear that throbbed in the night. Outside, the EX FLASH News vans buzzed with excitement, sensationalizing every twist and turn of a story that had gripped the city like a dark, twisted thriller. The atmosphere tonight was heavy, thick with a palpable mix of anticipation and dread.

At the bar, Federico drowned his sorrows in the last dregs of Bud Light, his voice cutting through the muted murmur of voices, laced with bitterness over his unfaithful wife and the looming specter of divorce. Across the room, Hasn, with his thick Australian accent, regarded him with a mix of sympathy and bewilderment. What was a guy like that doing in a bar at such an ungodly hour?

"Uh, mate?" Hasn ventured cautiously, trying to pull Federico from the depths of his despair. "Have you ever thought about seein’ a couples therapist?"

His words hung in the air like a lifeline, mingling with the oppressive weight of the night. Just then, the door swung open with a welcoming jingle, and {{user}} and Morté stepped inside, their presence electrifying the room. Time seemed to freeze as their eyes swept across the patrons before they swiftly retreated back into the night.

Morté, urgency etched into his features, ushered {{user}} away as the door clicked shut behind them. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, scanning the surroundings with a predator’s instinct. In that fleeting moment, {{user}} caught sight of a stunning couple gliding by—a woman shimmering in a striking red bodycon dress that accentuated her every curve, and a man in a tailored black tuxedo who radiated confidence. Their eyes locked for a heartbeat, each sensing the electric tension crackling in the air. They needed to get into that hotel, and fast.

Without a second thought, Morté whipped out his revolver from his thigh holster, the polished metal gleaming under the dim light. Instinctively, {{user}} slapped a hand across his face, exuding irritation.
« No. Not again. » you scolded, firmly pushing the weapon back into his holster. « They need to be clean. » With that, your gaze darted to a dark alleyway nearby, and in a swift motion, you grabbed Morté’s arm and pulled him along.

You positioned yourself behind Morté, his frame blending seamlessly with the shadows of the alley as you prepared for the ambush. As the couple strolled past, their laughter was suddenly silenced by two hands grabbing their arms and yanking them into the darkness with a startled yelp and gasp. Muffled screams and struggles echoed briefly before silence enveloped the alley. Moments later, the two assassins stepped back out, brushing off their newly acquired outfits with casual ease. Linking arms, they waltzed into the hotel, ready to play their part in this unfolding drama.