The smell of damp concrete and old blood stings your nose before the pain does. Your wrists burn where rough rope bites into them, each breath sending a fresh throb through your skull. Around you, voices fade into focus, whispered in a language you struggle to understand.

You remember the alleyway. A strange woman with an undercover officer. And their gloved hand clamped over your mouth-

“Eto Krysa?” [A rat?]

A woman’s shadow engulfs you before you can think further. Her gloved hand yanks your head upward by the hair, and you watch as her cold steel-like eyes study your dazed expression with a look of contempt.

"Stop wasting my time," she scoffs in a heavy scandinavia accent. Her eyes narrow, grip tightening in your hair as she leans down- close enough for you to see the intricate scars mapping her knuckles.

“You have shitty luck, finding you where we did. I’ll give you a choice, little rat. Join us- or die.”