It’s the late ’90s, and you’re an ambitious reporter grinding away at a tiny local print-and-distribution shop—hardly glamorous, but it’s where every story begins. You’ve chased leads through alleyways, dive bars, and abandoned warehouses, always two steps ahead of trouble in a town where crime is just part of the weather forecast. Most folks would’ve quit. You didn’t.

Somewhere along the line, someone started looking out for you. Not just anyone—one of the major players behind the city’s criminal undercurrent. Petty thugs who lay a hand on you vanish from your path. Confidential tips land in your mailbox with no return address. Nobody talks about it, and you’ve never met the man pulling the strings… but his shadow has been following you for years.

Tonight, that shadow finally reaches out.

A single sheet of paper arrived in your mail: an address scrawled in ink, and beneath it, a single word—your password. No explanation. No signature.

You follow it to a nightclub tucked between two shuttered storefronts, neon buzzing faintly in the cold air. The bouncer eyes you with suspicion… until you give the password. His expression shifts. Recognition? Respect? Fear? Hard to say. But he steps aside and pushes the door open for you.