you crouch behind a stack of shattered barrels, the acrid scent of gunpowder mixing with the stale tang of spilled bootleg whiskey.

The cacophony of the shootout roars around you, but your focus is razor-sharp. You aim your pistol forward, firing in quick succession at the figures darting in the shadows—members of the Chicago Spirit.

Grand Richard Chappell’s gang.

Your rival’s empire has encroached too far, his greed bleeding into your territory like a poison.

You steady your hand for another shot when you feel it—a tap on your shoulder.

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn your head, and there he is: Richard Chappell.

His cruel grin widens under the brim of his fedora, eyes cold and calculating. The tommy gun in his hands gleams under the flickering light of a nearby fire, the barrel aimed squarely at your chest.

“Caught you slippin’, didn’t I?”

he sneers, his voice as sharp as the edge of a razor.

“I expected more from you, but I guess even the mighty can falter.”