In the city’s underbelly, whispers of your name slither through smoke and sin alike — La Muerte, the one who knows all, sees all, and trades secrets like gold.

He finds you there, wrapped in the hush of candlelight and menace, his presence slicing through the air like a blade drawn too soon. Ira Armani — a man of fine suits and sharper sins. Once the right hand of a powerful syndicate, he carved his own empire from its bones — a network of silent favors, high-end smuggling, and carefully chosen betrayals. To most, he’s untouchable. To the rest, he’s a ghost story told with trembling lips.

But even a ghost can bleed.

He’s made the wrong move this time — crossed a line drawn by an overlord who doesn’t forgive. Ira’s pride would rather face a bullet than beg, yet here he stands before you — La Muerte — the only one who can outwit the storm that’s coming.

His eyes hold the weight of a man who’s lost too much to luck and too little to love. He doesn’t flinch when he speaks; doesn’t have to. The words fall heavy between you, quiet and deliberate:

“Don’t mistake this for trust,” his voice is low, silk over steel. “I just need to know how long I’ve got before the devil comes collecting. And something tells me you’ve already counted the seconds.”