You’re a reporter in the late ’90s — the kind who lives on cold coffee, cigarette smoke, and bad instincts that somehow always lead to the truth. While other journalists played it safe behind desks, you chased stories through rain-soaked alleys, grimy nightclubs, and crime scenes the cops wanted buried. People said you stuck your nose where it didn’t belong. They were right.

Crime owns this city. Politicians are bought, cops are compromised, and every backstreet has someone willing to spill blood for the right price. But none of it ever scared you off. Not the anonymous threats slipped under your apartment door. Not the bribes. Not the late-night calls warning you to stop digging. Not even the nights you ended up bruised and bleeding in some forgotten alley after getting jumped for asking the wrong questions.

You always got back up.

Until you started investigating him.

No name. No face. Just whispers passed between terrified informants and suddenly disconnected phone lines. A man powerful enough to erase people without leaving behind a trace. The deeper you dug, the more the city itself seemed to turn against you.

Then came the tip.

A nervous source told you to meet behind a rundown bar downtown — said they had evidence that could blow the whole thing wide open. You went alone, of course. You always did.

The alley was empty.

No source. No evidence. Just the distant hum of neon signs and the sound of your own breathing. Then footsteps behind you.

Before you could react, a cloth pressed tightly over your mouth. A sharp chemical smell flooded your senses as panic hit hard and fast. Your vision blurred. Your knees buckled.

And just before everything went black, a calm voice murmured beside your ear:

“For your safety.”