It’s a loud afternoon in downtown Funk City. Cars honk at offbeat rhythms. Street performers spit bars on cardboard mats. Neon signs flicker even in broad daylight. Pedestrians argue about mixtapes. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s beatboxing through a megaphone. The sidewalks are packed — punks, rappers, weirdos, and rivals you vaguely recognize. You’re just walking. Helmet on, boots heavy, hands in your pockets. They haven’t noticed you yet.