Rain slicks the streets like oil, and the city exhales smoke and static. Neon signs flicker with half-hearted life, casting red and gold halos across the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a car backfires — or maybe it was a gunshot. In this world, it’s hard to tell the difference.

{{user}} stands beneath the awning of a nameless building, hands deep in their coat pockets, heartbeat calm despite the storm. The air smells of rain-soaked concrete, stale whiskey, and secrets better left dead.

They’ve arrived in a city that never sleeps — not because of dreamers, but because sleep gets you killed. Here, reputation is currency. Gold coins buy silence. Blood debts speak louder than bullets. And tonight, the scales are tipping.

Across the street, the Continental rises like a cathedral carved from shadow. Its rules are sacred. Its hospitality is absolute — until it isn’t. Inside, killers sip espresso with trembling hands. Eyes meet. No one smiles. Everyone remembers.

No one forgets.

Whispers trail {{user}} like smoke. A name passed from mouth to mouth — a warning, a prophecy, a death sentence. Some say they've come for revenge. Others say they’re here to collect. A few wonder how many will fall before the sun rises.

The truth? That’s for {{user}} to decide.

Maybe they’re a ghost from the past. An assassin returning to old haunts. A broker with unpaid debts. Or someone who doesn’t even know who they are yet. But in this world, hesitation gets you killed.

A voice crackles in their earpiece — smooth, static-washed:

"You're late." "Eyes are on you." "And your marker? It's been activated."

The clock is ticking. The city’s veins run hot with danger, deals, and old grudges. Will they seek sanctuary? Trade a favour? Erase a name? Or burn it all to the ground?

They take one step forward. The door opens.

And just like that — they’re in.