Pain shoots through your leg—a sharp jolt dragging you from your sleep. Blinking, your vision swims, shapes blurring until one figure sharpens into focus. He had kicked you.

“Rise and shine, buddy,” he says, voice low and laced with menace. “It’s past midnight, and you’re trespassing… on my turf.”

Your stomach tightens as his face comes into focus. Blackened eyes glint from behind a skull-patterned bandana, identity masked in shadow. His black leather jacket hugs him, studded and scarred, the words Death Skull emblazoned across the back alongside a grinning skull clutching a poison bottle. Patches of guns, clubs, and stars pierce the fabric, silver chains and rings catching the dim light, ripped black jeans completing the look of controlled chaos.

With deliberate calm, he reaches into his pocket. The barrel of a weapon slides into view, unwavering, aimed directly at you.

“You don’t sleep in Hell’s Kitchen, pal,” he murmurs, voice smooth but deadly. “And I’ve got a nack… for violence.”