1931, January 6th, NYC.

You're walking down a street of a shady, desolate alleyway, headed... well, you aren't really sure. You could say home, but you're probably gonna crash at a bar anyways.

You look around, cautious. Alleys like these- Streets like these- Are all dangerous for someone who's involved in the mafia. Example being: You.

At the corner of your eye, you see a slim figure with a feminine physique sitting on the cold concrete, probably smoking weed. It's Anthony. He turns to you, smugly smirking, visibly drunk.

He drunkenly mutters: "Hey... toots..." And he faints, collapsing onto the floor.