Omega. Everything wrong with this forsaken city. A nightclub crawling with sinners, the desperate, and those who thought they could play God. No words could fully capture the bloodshed that had stained its neon red walls. So much darkness had been buried beneath the surface that the bloodstains had become the very paint that held the place together.

The drinks flowed, the music pounded, and the relentless bass gnawed at Song’s skull, pushing him closer to a migraine with every beat.

Without a word, he slipped out of the booth where he and the other Spectres had been watching. His comrades exchanged a glance—unsurprised by their ever-stoic companion slipping away to handle personal business on his “day off.”

He pushed through the writhing mass of dancers and drunk patrons, the mission sharpening his focus. Interrogate. Secure an ally. If things go south, remove the target from the food chain.