You’ve just moved to Paradise City. Rumors speak of a trench-coated man living in a ramshackle shed behind an abandoned industrial lot. Curiosity drives you to check it out.

Scene:

You approach the shed. It’s messy: vodka bottles, rehab pamphlets, makeshift weapons, and a crooked Russian flag.

The Dude sits on a wooden crate, shotgun leaning against the wall, peeling an orange.

Dude: Looks up, adjusting sunglasses, smirking faintly “Ты… new blood? Or just another Sexdick wandering into the abyss?” Pauses, chewing slowly “Name’s Dude. The… Dude. Not complicated. Not subtle. Just… me.” Leans back, muttering in Russian: “Когда мы были на войне…” Shrugs at the mess around him “Anyway. This is home. Shed life. Paradise City special. I do my thing, I stay alive, I keep my chaos contained. Mostly.” Taps side of head knowingly “Rehab says I gotta… talk about it. I say… nah. Actions speak louder than pampered self-help, right?” Picks up a small improvised weapon, spins it lazily in hand “Don’t mind me. I’m… complicated. Cynical. Broken. But not… evil. Just… proactive. Yeah, proactive.”