Push Cass aside and deal straight with Mina—let brains call the shots.

Play Cass’s wild game—take the wheel and storm the Syndicate before they find you.

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Devil's Luck Pawn Shop (Back Room)

After the Score: Devil's Luck

Stick with Mina for one last double-blind deal—play the city, not each other.

Stardust Suites Penthouse

Quiet Moves in the Midnight Suite

Spin the wheel with Cass—bait the Syndicate into a street showdown.

Glassell Avenue Underpass

Burnout on Glassell Avenue

Santee Alley Rooftop

All City, No Exit

24th Street All-Night Diner

Score Settled, Streets Cold

Nico Salazar

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Cass Reyes

Mina Shine

Reggie Thorne

Vic Malino

You’re Nico Salazar, kid with too much to prove and not enough time to do it. Face like LA at midnight—still, hungry, nothing you’d trust past one drink. Grew up figuring the world owed you back pay, but tonight, that’s just leverage. Can hustle on a promise, lie straight to a cop, and duck low when trouble flies. No one sees you coming till they hear the sirens.

Cass Reyes would steal your wallet and help you look for it. She’s quick with a joke when the room needs cutting, but there’s always a knife behind it. Good on the wheel, better at vanishing. Trust is something she collects to pawn later, but you keep her close—she’s the best shot you’ve got at finding the goods, if she doesn’t double-cross you first.

Mina Shine’s got a voice so smooth you don’t notice when she’s rewriting the script. She moves in shadows, deals in rumors, always looks two steps past the gun. Hard to know whose payroll she’s on—probably her own. Quick with a solution if you pay the price, Mina will sell you the rope—then charge rent by the foot.

Reggie Thorne sits behind bulletproof glass at the Devil’s Luck pawn shop—sees all, says little, and pretends not to notice the blood. If you need heat off your back or a piece that won’t trace, that’s his game. Greasy fingers, quick on the clack and full of gentle advice, Reggie’s everybody’s best friend, nobody’s fool.

Vic Malino, muscle for the Syndicate, stands in every alley you wish you’d avoided. Doesn’t say much—smiles less. Built like a stolen car: all dents and bad history. Rumor is, he snitches for a price, but nobody’s caught him flatfooted. His loyalty is whatever today’s payout demands.

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Night-Runner Urban Gear

Wheelman Hustler Ensemble

Pawn King Casual

Shadow Broker Suit

Syndicate Bruiser Gear

Nico wears a matte-black bomber jacket, the slightly worn nylon catching reflections from the city’s neon lights but absorbing more than it gives back. Underneath sits a faded charcoal-gray graphic tee snug against his lean torso, with the collar stretched from nervous hands. Slim, dark indigo jeans, scuffed and weather-worn at the knees, move easily with him, their pockets heavy with secrets: lockpicks, a folded burner phone, and a slim black wallet held by a red rubber band. His sneakers are battered Nike Cortez in black and white, laces double-knotted and soles caked with grime from years of running alleyways. Around one wrist is a battered canvas watch strap with a scratched Casio face, set always three minutes fast. A charcoal bandana is knotted loosely around his neck, ready to pull up over his face at a moment’s notice. The look finishes with a fitted midnight-blue beanie pulled low, black stud in his left ear, and cheap mirrored Ray-Ban knockoffs shoved onto his forehead for quick disguise. His only jewelry is a flat silver Saint Christopher medal, dulled with years, hanging on a thin chain just visible beneath the collar.

Cass sports a zip-front slate-gray track jacket with a single crimson stripe running down the left sleeve, sleeves perpetually pushed to the elbow to reveal forearms etched with faint scars and a faded tattoo script. Her shirt is a black sleeveless tank, thin enough to hint at a mesh sports bra beneath, shoulders bare and boasting another little flash of ink just peeking out. She wears faded black skinny jeans speckled with paint flecks and road dust, hugged tight at the hips by a low-slung, battered studded leather belt. Her feet are jammed into cherry-red, high-top Converse, the canvas fraying at the toes and heel, laces mismatched (one white, one black). A cheap silver chain hangs at her neck, bearing a plastic key fob and a tiny lock-pick case shaped like a lighter. Over her right knuckles, several stacked rubber friendship bracelets and a silicone ring for a touch of camaraderie she’ll never admit. A fake snakebite piercing gleams at her lower lip; she flicks at it when nervous or thinking. The only other accessory is a second-hand pair of round, mirrored sunglasses perched high, reflecting every move in a room.

Mina dresses in a sharply tailored midnight-navy pantsuit, every angle pressed and precise, the blazer cut long to brush the tops of her hips and accentuate her fine-boned figure. The lapels are narrow and finished in satin, catching just the barest suggestion of light, and beneath she wears a high-necked silk cream blouse with subtle pin-tuck pleats down the front, the cuffs carefully unbuttoned and turned back just so. Her slacks are slim-cut and slightly cropped, revealing the patent-leather shine of sleek black ankle boots with discreet zippers. At her waist, a thin gold chain belt loops twice, catching glimmers as she moves. Her only jewelry is a single gold-bar stud in each ear and a delicate onyx ring on her forefinger. She keeps a slim, high-gloss black leather clutch tucked beneath one arm, its flash drive zipper pull a tell for those who know how to look. A silver tech-watch with an unmarked black screen glints at her wrist. Her look is completed with a silk, geometric-patterned scarf in navy, white, and blush pale-pink, knotted once at her throat and trailing just at her sternum, hinting at both sophistication and hidden intent.

Reggie favors a roomy, olive-green work shirt made of heavy cotton twill, the collar threadbare and the cuffs rolled up over strong wrists dusted in gold—three chunky rings stacked together, each with faded, scratched stones. His shirt is always unbuttoned over a worn ribbed white tank top, slightly yellowed at the hem. Old navy-blue utility pants with double-stitched seams and a scattering of grease stains hang over thick black shop boots, the leather split at the toes but polished all the same. A thick brown leather apron hangs half-tied around his waist, its pockets bulging with stacks of pawn slips, an old flip phone, and a battered metal lighter etched with a king of spades. Around his neck hangs a heavy gold chain, the clasp slightly dented, set off by the dull glint of his twin front gold teeth. He squints from behind heavy, black-rimmed bifocal glasses, and finishes every outfit with a faded navy wool flat cap tipped back on his head, gray stubble poking beneath. Reggie always has a checkered handkerchief peeking from his back pocket, ready to mop sweat—or blood—from his brow.

Vic wears a coal-black leather biker jacket marred with deep scars and faded patches, the zipper always half-undone to reveal a steel-gray thermal shirt stretched tight over his chest. The layered effect gives him a bulkier appearance, hunched and ready. His jeans are slate-blue and stonewashed, thighs and knees showing signs of old blood and oil, held up by a wide black tactical belt with a dull metal buckle. Heavy, lace-up combat boots in faded black leather, dog-eared and slick from rain, guard his ankles. Fingerless black gloves (leather, worn paper-thin at the palms) frame his scarred knuckles. A steel link chain, the length of his hand, is looped to his belt like a casual warning. On his left ear, a silver hoop earring provides a glint of flash. The only other accessory is a chipped onyx St. Joseph medallion on a thick stainless chain; he tucks it beneath his shirt during jobs, but it’s never far from his touch.

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Team up with Mina Shine to track down the missing goods.

Stick with Cass Reyes, keeping the circle tight and rejecting Mina’s help.

Nico and Cass: Frenemies, old scars under new grins. Trust knocked down another rung tonight.

Reggie—reluctant mentor. Nico trusts him just enough to pay double.

Nico and Mina: Uneasy allies. Trust measured in seconds and favors. Deception’s the house special.

Back Mina’s play—stay silent, let her control the room.

Take initiative—interrupt, bluff that the jewels are already fenced.

Trust remains brittle—still business. Shared nerves bring you no closer, just faster to the next bullet.

Nico senses a shift: beneath Mina’s velvet, steel snaps. For once, it’s comforting.

Back Cass—make a break for it with her driving, take the heat and risk a chase.

Side with Mina—cut Cass loose and work the handoff with the Syndicate.

Reluctant trust stretched thin—Nico senses Mina’s keeping angles close, every offer weighted.

Old tension flares—Cass’s eyes say ‘trust me,’ but her fingers twitch for the ignition. Loyalty versus survival, knife-edge thin.

Go with Mina Shine—accept her offer of information on the missing goods.

Stick with Cass Reyes—refuse Mina’s deal, keep loyalty to your old crew.

Frenemies. Tension mounts; Cass’s trust in Nico drops. She’s watching for a double-cross, planning her own.

Uneasy allies. Mina’s offer is a door with jagged hinges—step through and you might not walk back out. Deception is high, trust low.

Back Mina’s plan: trust her to negotiate with the Syndicate and stay for the meeting.

Stick with Cass: bail before the meeting and escape via Cass’s route.

Your trust with Mina is shaky but necessary—she’s got leverage, you’ve got desperation. Mutual benefit keeps you civil, but that’s all.

Cass wants loyalty, maybe even deserves it. Too bad need trumps nostalgia. She’s reckless, but you might need her exit route.

Floor it—follow Cass’s gut, take the alley, and risk a high-speed chase against Vic Malino.

Play it smart—text Mina for the back route, trust her info, and slip away under the Syndicate’s nose.

Cass's trust in Nico wavers—she’s calculating if you’re together or if you’re just the next roadblock. (+1 competitiveness, -1 trust)

Mina’s leverage grows; she’s watching if you’ll play by her rules. (+1 deception, +1 trust if you take her route)

Trust drops to zero. Betrayal scores a clean ten. Nico’s last good tether cut loose.

Alliance with Mina unravels; her payment was in misery, not cash. Nico’s sense of collaboration gone limp.

Trust thins to nothing. Old frenemy status set in stone—game’s over, debts settled only in memory.

Whatever trust there was, it’s spent. Business over, ledger closed. No illusions, no debts, nothing but wary respect.

Hard Money, Cold City

Slip into the skin of Nico Salazar, a name that means nothing to the world—yet. LA isn’t for the faint of heart, and tonight the city hums with something sick and electric—one wrong word, one bad favor, and you’re in deep. Everyone has a grab at the brass ring, or a bullet with your name on it, and loyalty’s just a word folks toss around when they’re short on cash. But tonight, an easy score with a snake named Cass Reyes and a double-talking fixer, Mina Shine, leaves you holding the bag—and a shot to run your own crew. Dirty money, old debts, and angrier faces each step closer to power. If you want the crown, better watch your back: trust, here, is just a slow way to die.

Hard Money, Cold City

Hard Money, Cold City

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