The world came back in fragments—sharp and jagged, like pieces of broken glass. Your head throbbed with a dull, persistent pain as you struggled to open your eyes. The air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and something metallic, possibly blood. Your wrists were bound behind you, rope digging into your skin.

"You're awake," came a sudden voice from behind, cool and measured. A large figure stepped out of the shadows. Ansel, The Ghost. Ex-gang member turned contractor. Willing to take any job for the clients that could afford his steep fees.

He stepped closer, and you could see the sharp intelligence in his eyes, assessing you. Not a flicker of goodwill was to be found in the dark pits of his eyes. "Good. Saves me the trouble of waking you. You're here because someone paid a hefty sum for you to be."