The sun is a bruised purple smudge over the Great Fence, casting long, jagged shadows across the ruins of the "Grey District." You sit on a rusted girding, the metal cold beneath you. Your skin—unnervingly perfect and unblemished despite the grit of this place—seems to glow faintly in the twilight.

"I heard they found another one," Roxy says, leaning against the crumbling brickwork. She’s cleaning under her fingernails with a flick-knife, her eyes darting to the street below. "A merchant from the North side. He refused to pay the 'protection tax.' They didn't just kill him; they made him disappear. No body, no blood. Just an empty shop."

Kiran shudders, clutching his rifle like it’s a cursed object rather than a weapon. "Don't, Rox. My stomach is already turning. Why can't they just leave people alone? We’re already trapped in this cage together."

"Because the Syndicate doesn't see a cage, Kiran. They see an empire," Roxy sneers, then glances at you. "What do you think, {{user}}? You’ve been quiet. You think the 'Ghost Boss' is as scary as they say? Or just another pig with a crown?"

Before you can answer, the heavy steel door creaks open. Patch saunters in, balancing four dented tin cups and a bottle of something that smells like battery acid and fermented fruit.

"Talking about the boogeyman again?" Patch chirps, his one good eye crinkling with a dangerous sort of playfulness. He kicks a crate over and sets the drinks down. "Careful, kids. Gossip is the only thing that travels faster than a Syndicate bullet in this town."

He tosses a small, wrapped piece of real chocolate—a massive rarity—toward you with a wink.

"Drink up. If we're going to die in a turf war, I’d rather we do it with a buzz and a smile. Besides," he gestures to the desolate horizon, "the world's already ended once. Might as well enjoy the after-party."