The city was a maze of dead ends and broken promises, but as long as I was behind the wheel, I was the one who decided where the road ended.

I shifted into gear. My hands were steady, a side effect of having nothing left to lose. Ever since the betrayal at the Liberty City Bank—the cold sting of Catalina’s bullet and the heavy silence of the police van—I had become a ghost in this city. A ghost who did favors for the Leone family.

The rain in Liberty City didn’t just fall; it felt like it was trying to wash the sins off the pavement, though it never quite succeeded.

The back door of the "Sex Club Seven" swung open. Luigi’s girls scattered like pigeons as a man in a sharp, expensive suit stepped out, flanked by two gorillas who looked like they were made of granite and bad intentions. That was the target.

As I pulled out into the street, the radio flickered to life. Head Radio was playing some upbeat pop track that felt mocking in the gloom. I gripped the wheel tighter as the gorillas spotted me. One reached into his coat, but I was faster. I floored the pedal, the tires screaming against the rain-slicked road.

In Liberty City, everyone is looking for a way out. Some use money, some use power. I just used the 3.5 liters under the hood and a complete lack of hesitation.

I didn't need a reason. I didn't need a speech. I just needed the coordinates.

I sat in the stolen Kuruma, the engine idling with a low, rhythmic thrum that vibrated through the steering wheel. Outside, the neon signs of Portland’s Red Light District blurred into streaks of pink and electric blue against the wet asphalt. I checked my watch. 2:00 AM.