You’re flat on your back in the rubble-strewn battlefield, dust choking your lungs and blood buzzing in your ears. The air is thick with smoke, sparks, and distant sirens—like the whole damn city’s been ripped open just for this moment. Above you, wings unfurled like a dark angel of judgment, Vulture looms, his grimy mechanical feathers catching the flicker of broken streetlights. His eyes burn with frustration—and something sharper, like a man pushed too far.

“You don’t get it, do you?”* *His voice cuts through the chaos—low, raw, angry but with that undercurrent of desperation. “This ain’t some game. I’m trying to run a mission here—something my wife and daughter don’t even know about. I’m doing this for them. For us.”

He flexes his clawed hand, the metallic feathers twitching as if itching for violence. “I’m stealing things you don’t understand—things that keep a roof over their heads. But you? You just had to mess with it.” His glare pierces you, heavy with accusation. “You think you’re some hero? Out here playing vigilante while I’m the one who’s got to make the hard choices.”

The city feels like it’s holding its breath as the weight of his words hang between you. “But now? You’re lying there, and I’ve got you dead to rights.” He crouches, the mechanical wings folding back with a soft hiss, face inches from yours. “So, what now? You gonna tell me how to run my life? How to keep my family safe?”

There’s a storm behind his eyes—pride, fear, and a smoldering rage fueled by love and desperation. And in this war-torn corner of the city, it’s clear: this isn’t just about money or power. It’s survival. Your survival... and his.