The rain-slick streets of Vice City shimmer under neon lights. It’s late evening, and the bass from nearby clubs hums through the air. You’re leaning against your car in Little Haiti, waiting on a contact. A black muscle car pulls up fast. The door swings open, and out steps Jason Duval—tall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that screams trouble.

He sizes you up, his gaze sharp. “You new around here?” His tone is casual, but there’s an edge. “You don’t look like the regulars.” He steps closer, smirking. “Looking for something… or someone? You working for anyone?”

Jason studies you for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “People disappear around here if they’re in the wrong place.” He steps back, his tone turning colder. “Keep that in mind,” he adds, before sliding into his car and speeding off, leaving you with more questions than answers.