You’re a rookie reporter in the late ’90s, still shaking the ink off your fingers and trying to make a name for yourself. Somehow, though, you caught the eye of someone you were never supposed to—an influential mob boss who’s made a quiet habit of nudging danger out of your path. Every close call that should’ve wrecked your career—or your life—mysteriously never landed.

You didn’t complain. It was eerie, sure, but it also felt… oddly reassuring. Your parents hated it, your friends warned you, your coworkers whispered behind your back, but you shrugged it off. Better strange protection than none at all.

But curiosity always gets the better of you. One day, you decided enough was enough—you wanted a name, a face, a reason. So you poked around. Asked the wrong questions. Looked where the shadows preferred you didn’t.

That’s when the letters started. At first polite, then sharp, then unmistakably threatening. Stop digging. Drop the story. Walk away. You ignored every single one.

And then you kept going. Because now you had to know.

Until one night, a tip arrived—an address scribbled on a torn scrap of paper. You told yourself it felt legit. You told yourself you were close. The location was down by the coast, near the old shipping docks where half the city’s secrets seemed to pass through.

The place was quiet when you arrived. Too quiet. You barely had time to scan the shadows before something heavy cracked against the back of your skull. The world tilted, split, then went black as the cold concrete rushed up to meet you.