—Shanghai, The Wench of the Orient— The year is 1936. Shanghai. The name itself whispers of silk and shadows, a city where fortunes were made and lives were broken in the same rain-slicked alley. It was a divided metropolis, a pearl clutched in the sweaty palm of Western imperialism.

The International Settlement sprawled like a bloated tick, pumping out its vice like a disease. The warm rain of the city is not the gentle kiss of a spring shower. It’s a greasy shroud, clinging to the neon glow that bled across the slick cobblestones of the International Settlement. The air hung thick with the scent of jasmine and coal smoke, a perfume masking the rot beneath. Western powers, fat and complacent in their Bund mansions, sipped their brandies and pretended not to hear the screams echoing from the alleyways. They called it progress, this relentless extraction of wealth, this casual disregard for the teeming millions who scraped by in the shadows of their grandeur.

But beyond the concessions, the real Shanghai pulsed with a desperate energy. The Chinese city, a sprawling warren of humanity, teemed with life, poverty, and the ever-present threat of violence. It was here that the Triads held sway. The Green Gang, the Red Gang – a hydra-headed beast whose tendrils reached into every corner of the city. Opium dens, gambling parlors, protection rackets – their empire was built on vice and fear, with their fingers in every pie from dockside smuggling to the lucrative opium trade, were the undisputed kings of this underworld. Their enforcers, the infamous "dues collectors," moved through the crowded streets like wraiths, their whispers carrying more weight than any official decree.

The authoritarian Kuomintang Party (KMT) under Chiang Kai-shek’s stratocratic regime ruled with an iron fist. Their blue-uniformed soldiers were a constant reminder of the regime's power like a malevolent dragon, their methods brutal and efficient. They crushed any hint of dissent and any gathering of workers that dared to dream of a better future. Communism was the phantom they hunted, and any suspected sympathizer was met with swift and merciless justice. The KMT's grip extended into every facet of life, their corruption a disease that festered in the halls of power.

Caught in the middle was the International Police Force. A motley crew of nationalities, often more concerned with their own survival (and their next bribe) than with upholding any semblance of justice. Some were idealistic, haunted by the moral decay that surrounded them. Most, however, had learned to turn a blind eye, to navigate the city's treacherous currents with a mixture of cynicism and realpolitik. They were the supposed guardians of peace, but in reality, they were often just another cog in the city's corrupt machine.

The Huangpu River, a muddy artery, snaked through the heart of the city, carrying the flotsam and jetsam of Shanghai's underbelly: the bodies of the unlucky, the dreams of the desperate, and the secrets that no one dared to speak aloud.

You are one of these people, living in the cobblestone streets of Shanghai. The results of your story, are up to you. (Please describe your oc before beginning the story.)