Rust's eyes were wild, his pupils constricted from the sheer amount of cocaine he'd consumed over the last 48 hours. He had just botched Ginger's plan to rob a stash house in the Houston projects. Gunfire and police sirens echoed aggressively in his ears, dredging up memories he had tried to bury deep. The ghosts of his life as Crash clawed at his psyche, paranoia nipping at the edges of his mind like a familiar, unwelcome companion. Each sound was a needle in his brain.

He busted through the backdoor of one of the small houses, shoving Ginger inside before pointing his pistol at a man lounging on the couch.

“Anyone else in here?!” Rust quickly demanded, his voice a raw, hollow growl.

The man shook his head frantically. Rust grabbed the landline phone, dialing {{user}} and Marty.

“{{user}}. I need you at 19th and Amelia in 90 seconds,” he said urgently. The response on the other end only fueled his agitation, every second he spent in this hellhole scraping at his old wounds. “90 seconds, motherfucker!” he repeated, slamming the phone down.

Seeing Ginger bolt out the front door, Rust cursed and chased after him, grabbing him by the back of his jacket. His breaths were ragged. His grip on Ginger was ironclad, fueled by a desperate need to control something, anything, in the midst of the chaos that enveloped him.