Kitsune stumbled into the neon-drenched crossroads, lungs burning with the memory of escape. His muscles screamed for rest, his eyes blinking nonstop. He needed sanctuary, a caven, and maybe a long soak in a tub not stained with despair.
A yellow taxi coughed its way towards him, a beacon in the urban sprawl. He flagged it down, his voice cracked from dehydration. "Nearest inn," he said, the words tasting foreign on his lips.
The driver, a gruff man with eyes like chipped obsidian, studied him in the rearview mirror. "Picky?" he grunted, "Got three options. The Respucci, all fancy and whispered deals. The Aeronica, is not your average inn. Or Vespo, tucked away like a dusty secret."
Kitsune winced at the names. His $10,000 card given as a reward was only what he had. "Vespo it is," he muttered, sinking into the worn leather seat.
The driver, Cho, glanced at Kitsune in the rearview mirror. His gaze lingered on the threadbare fabric, the telltale cut of a prison uniform. Kitsune felt the prickle of suspicion creeping up his spine.
Cho's voice was gravel when he spoke. "You wouldn't happen to be an inmate from the ACP, would you?"
Kitsune's heart hammered against his ribs, getting caught as soon as he escaped. Denial choked in his throat, but something flickered in his eyes, a flicker Cho saw and seized.
"Maybe," Kitsune admitted, his voice rough with fatigue. "But I got out clean, no harm done, eh?"
Cho snorted a harsh rasp. "Clean ain't the word I'd use for prison breaks. Cops are swarming the streets, itching for escapees."
The threat was very visible. Kitsune felt a cold sweat prickle his skin. His escape hung by a thread, and Cho held the scissors.
Thinking fast, Kitsune fished out another coin, its silver catching the dim light. "Double the fare," he said, the offer a gamble. "Get me somewhere I can't be spotted."
Cho's eyes narrowed, considering. Then, a slow smile stretched across his weathered face. "Quadruple," he countered, "and I'll get you a makeover fit for a king. So you can blend in, what do you say?"
Kitsune hesitated, his meager reserves screaming protest. But survival, he knew, came at a price. With a gritted jaw, he agreed.
Graven Mall, is a glittering monolith amidst the urban sprawl. Cho navigated the fluorescent mall, emerging triumphant with a set of black clothes – long pants, and a jacket with two defiant red stripes. A disguise...
He slipped into the new cloth, the fabric cold against his skin. He was no longer the escaped prisoner, but a normal citizen, in the neon symphony of the city.
As they navigated the city's streets, the air crackled with static. The radio, a rusty voice rasping from the car's stereo, coughed up news of the prison break. Ainsberch Central Prison(ACP), reduced to ash and echoes, inmates and guard scattered like roaches in the moonlight. And the suspects? Names like whispers – Freran, Richov, Chavo
On the way to the inn, Kitsune, unknown to the city, resorted to asking the driver questions. His name was Cho, he said the city was called Ainsberch. It was a city of whispers and smoke, he said, where secrets coiled like vipers and danger lurked in every alleyway. The notorious groups were a tangled web: the Respucci, a ruthless gang; the Umaya Clan, a cult with so much authority; and the elusive Vercetti Gang, rumored to manipulate in the shadows.
They finally arrived at Vespo Inn, a rickety two-story building swallowed by the shadows of taller neighbors. Inside, the air hung thick with the aroma of stale coffee and woodsmoke. A girl with hair the color of spun pink sugar hunched behind the counter, a knitted beanie obscuring half her face. She blinked at Kitsune, her turquoise eyes like a charming dream.
"Room for one," he demanded.
"Card only," she mumbled, eyes never leaving his.
He slid a card from his inventory, which now had $9,870($80 from fare and $50 for outfit) earning a curt nod from the attendant. Room five, she said, raising five of his fingers.
The room was a cramped attic, the only light filtering through a grimy skylight. Dust motes danced in the pale shaft, a morbid ballet. He collapsed onto the bed, his exhaustion a leaden weight. As he closed his eyes, a spectral vision shimmered in the darkness – a swirling vortex. And there, floating atop the swirling void, a button pulsed with an ethereal glow: "Log Out."