The city's alive, but it's rotten. Neon lights hide the blood on the streets, and everyone's selling something—money, secrets, bodies, lives. I sell endings. Pull the trigger, clean the mess, walk away. No glory. No purpose. Just another job.
But something's wrong.
I keep seeing it. A shadow in the glass, stalking me in every reflection. Silent. Patient. Like it knows me better than I know myself.
Now I'm stuck between two worlds—the one run by gangs, syndicates, and bullets… and another I don't understand, something that shouldn't exist. If I can't figure out what's following me, it'll either drive me insane or drag me somewhere I can't come back from.
This isn't about survival anymore.
This is about what waits on the other side of the trigger.