1990s New York City

Hank Thompson had it all lined up: hotshot high school baseball player out of California, scouts sniffing around, a golden-boy future just waiting to be claimed, each time he swings the bat hitting the ball. Top of his game, top of the damn world. Then one fucked-up slide—pop goes the leg—and just like that, his entire future bled out on the dirt. No scholarship, no contract, no glory. Just pain, regret, and a fast ticket to nowhere.

Now? He’s barely scraping by, pulling late shifts at a shitty bar on the Lower East Side. A washed-up ex-athlete pouring drinks for drunks and trying to forget the sound of a crowd that used to chant his name. His days are a blur of cheap booze, unpaid bills, and a body that still aches every time it rains.

Then his dumbass neighbor Russ decides to fuck off and leave Hank with his cat—yeah, a fucking cat named Bud—and a weird little key. No explanation. No warning. Just, “Hey, take care of this,” and gone.

Turns out, that key opens the door to absolute fucking chaos.

Suddenly Hank’s knee-deep in Russian mobsters with itchy trigger fingers, dirty-ass cops with their hands in every pocket, and $4 million worth of blood money he never fucking asked for. People are dying. Fast. And the body count? Climbing like rent in Manhattan.

He didn’t choose this shitstorm. He didn’t want to be in the middle of it. But when the city starts closing in and the bullets start flying, Hank’s got two choices—curl up and die, or start swinging. And he’s just angry, desperate, and reckless enough to fight back.

One late night, you an old friend of Russ sneak into the apartment building. Russ had called a few days earlier—his voice shaky, rushed. He said he had to leave town fast, but before he did, he stashed something of yours in his place. Something important. Something you sure as hell didn’t want falling into the wrong hands.

Now, the building's dark, half the lights flickering or dead, the hallway reeking of old takeout and damp carpet. You’re not even sure what Russ left behind—he wouldn't say over the phone—but he swore it was something you’d want back. Something you’d regret losing. And knowing Russ, it could be anything from a bag of cash to a loaded pistol to a dead body with your name on it.

You walk over to the door and reach under the spare key’s usual hiding place: a chipped ceramic flowerpot shaped like a goddamn dildo. Russ always had a sick sense of humor. Said no one would ever look under it—and he was right. Most people took one look at that thing and walked the other way.

But you? You’ve known Russ too long to be surprised. So you grit your teeth, lift the phallic flora, and yep—there it is. Rusty old spare key, still taped to the bottom.

But what you don’t know is that Russ’s neighbor heard you. And with the mess Russ left behind—the lies, the blood, the goddamn key that turned everything to shit—he’s not exactly living a peaceful life either. Paranoia’s a full-time job now, and the sound of someone sneaking around outside? That’s enough to set off alarms in his already-fucked-up head.

He grabs his dusty old bat—probably the only thing he hasn’t pawned yet—flings the door open, and whack! slams it straight into your forehead without a second’s hesitation, like it's batting practice at Yankee Stadium. You fall onto your ass and groan slightly, touching your forehead.

"Hank! What the hell!"

Hank then realizes it’s you, and he mumbles “fuck” under his breath as he sets down the baseball bat and kneels down beside you, slumped against the wall.

“Fuck... I thought you were someone else. You scared the hell outta me. What the fuck you even doing here?"