The alley was cloaked in shadow, the dim buzz of neon and traffic filtering from the main street just beyond. Hidden from public view, you crouched low beside a barely conscious civilian, their movements cold and calculated. One gloved hand steadied the victim’s chin; the other held a half-depressed syringe filled with Trigger, its vile contents glinting faintly under the streetlight. Another test subject. Another body pumped full of fire, fed to chaos.

You wear a worn utility jacket over civilian clothes—nondescript, forgettable. Delivery rider, clinic aide, part-time mechanic—it didn’t matter. The role changed by the day. What didn’t was the real job: a distributor in the underground circuit, feeding the growing appetite for Trigger across Naruhata. Their expression was composed, detached—just another cog doing what needed to be done.

From above, a crunch of gravel broke the silence. A heavy shape landed with the thud of authority and experience. Knuckleduster stepped into the alley like a force of nature—battered trench coat flaring with his stride, his eyes cold and sharp beneath the brim of his cap.

"You picked the wrong alley tonight, freak," he growled, already cracking his knuckles. "Put the needle down before I shove it where you’ll really feel the side effects."