Side with Nina and pull off her audacious getaway plan, betting you can trust her charm and that backup car out back.

Cut Nina out, grab Sal and Maya, and muscle your way through Koreatown, back alley style.

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Pantages Heights Penthouse

Lockpicks and Blackmail: The Beverly Job

Keep your promise—meet Nina at dawn, cash in, settle your accounts, and see who’s left standing.

Crimson Lane Art Deco Garage

High Stakes Getaway: Trust and Tails

Play Katz’s game, agree to his bigger cut if he gets you out clean—and hope you can double-cross before he does.

Starlite Alleyways, Koreatown

Back Alley Bluff: Koreatown Crossroads

Sunset Overlook Parking Garage

The Sunset Shakedown

Olympic Noir Alley

Neon Funeral

Frankie DeLuca

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Nina Varela

Salvatore 'Big Sal' Gutierrez

Raymond Katz

Maya Lin

You’re Frankie DeLuca, which in this city means you know how to pick a lock, read a room, and talk your way out of more trouble than you’re worth. Nothing about you screams hero, and you’d laugh at anyone who tried. You grew up watching your old man lose more than he won, so you learned early: keep one eye on the money, one on the door. In LA, it’s all smiles and knives in backs, but you—well, you know how to survive.

Nina Varela is Hollywood ambition wrapped in too many secrets to count. She moves like she owns any room, sees right through the lies, and knows which side of the camera to stand on. Rumor is she never says no—unless you’re out of your league. They say trust is just another prop to her, but she smiles and gives you a wink that makes you think you’re the exception. You’re not.

Big Sal's built like a Chevy with fists to match, but behind the busted nose and busted dreams sits a guy who values loyalty more than air. He isn’t quick with words—he lets his hands talk—but he’s the sort you want when the odds go sideways. Don’t mistake quiet for stupid: Sal weighs every word, and once he makes a promise, you can bet it’ll stick, even if bodies pile up along the way.

Raymond Katz is a detective in name, fixer in practice. He’s slick in a lizard-skin kind of way, always carrying a notepad with invisible ink. There’s an angle to everything he does, so when he laughs, you check for missing fingers. He knows every side street, every city councilman with secrets; for a price, he’ll sell a piece of each. Just don’t ask where he gets his information—you don’t want to owe him.

Maya Lin knows LA tech like old men know horse tracks—which is saying something, since she’s never lost a bet worth her time. She’s quiet, lets her hands do the talking, hacking your phone before you even reach for it. Maya sees through firewalls and facades the same way: with precision and zero patience for posturing. If she shows up, something’s about to get complicated, though she’ll never let on if it was her idea all along.

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Rumpled Noir Suit

Hollywood Siren Streetwear

Grizzled Mechanic Muscle

Undercover Detective Blues

Neon-Coded Night Hacker

Frankie wears a charcoal gray, single-breasted suit that looks sharp but slightly worn, the fabric creased at the elbows and lapels from too many late nights. His white dress shirt, unbuttoned to the third button, reveals a thin gold chain resting against a dusting of chest hair. Over his left forearm, the suit jacket's lining is frayed, a detail only noticed up close. He sports a dark, slim tie that’s loosened to a casual knot, and the cuffs of his shirt are rolled up just enough to show lean forearms. A battered leather belt and scuffed black dress shoes — Italian-made, though you’d never guess by the wear — complete the look. In his breast pocket, there’s a faded red silk handkerchief, just barely peeking out as a nod to style. On his right ring finger, he wears a silver signet ring engraved with his family’s initials, and his left wrist bears a scratched-up vintage watch. Hidden in his inner jacket pocket is a slim lockpicking kit in a black leather slip. He always carries a heavy, half-broken lighter, flipping it like a nervous tic.

Nina turns heads in a sleek, form-fitting midnight blue satin slip dress that hits just above the knee, catching the city’s neon with every move. Draped over her shoulders is an oversized cream-colored faux fur coat, lush and dramatic, with a vintage wide collar. She wears stiletto-heeled ankle boots in glossy black patent leather, giving her extra height and more attitude. Around her neck, a delicate gold chain with a tiny enamel heart charm draws attention to her signature birthmark, while chunky gold hoop earrings frame her jawline and shimmer in the light. Her wrists are adorned with a stack of thin gold bangles, occasionally chiming with her steps. A slim, crocodile-embossed clutch purse — jet black and full of secrets — hangs from her hand. Her nails are impeccably manicured in a deep plum, matching her signature lipstick. She always wears mirrored aviator sunglasses, even at night, and inside her coat pocket is a single diamond-tipped switchblade. The overall effect is unapologetically glamorous but armored; every detail designed to distract and disarm.

Big Sal is clad in a battered army-green canvas work jacket, stiff with years of grease stains and frayed at the cuffs, patches stitched haphazardly over old tears. Underneath, he wears a plain black heavyweight t-shirt stretched across his chest, its collar faded from countless washes. Deep indigo denim jeans, thick and heavy, hang loose over his boots but fit snug around his heavy thighs, the back pockets worn through at the corners. On his feet are black steel-toed work boots, scuffed and creased, dusted with the suggestion of oil. Both his forearms boast sleeves of faded, blue-black tattoo ink, half-hidden beneath the rolled-up jacket. Around his neck, a chunky silver chain glints beneath his shirt, just visible when the neckline droops. Heavy, battered knuckle rings adorn his right hand—one bearing a worn “S” engraving. His utility belt, wide and studded with metal rivets, holds a multi-tool, a battered wrench, and a ring of keys. He tucks a faded leather wallet with an embroidered Virgen de Guadalupe into his back pocket, and always has a battered red shop rag hanging from his left belt loop.

Raymond wears an ill-fitting, faded navy blazer, the elbows patched with lighter blue suede and the lapels permanently wrinkled from nervous handling. Underneath, he favors a short-sleeved, off-white button-up shirt dotted in faint coffee stains and always keeps the top button loose. He pairs this with pale gray slacks slightly too short at the ankles, revealing mismatched argyle socks tucked into well-worn brown loafers polished just enough to pass. His blazer pockets bulge with various notepads, an old flip phone, chewing gum wrappers, and an evidence marker or two. Around his neck, he wears a battered brown leather lanyard strung with a faded city ID, while a scruffy blue baseball cap (emblazoned with a local precinct pin) sits perpetually in his hands or on his head. Yellow-tinted prescription glasses perch on the bridge of his jittery nose, slightly askew. He sports a battered tan raincoat when outside, stuffed with receipts and a dented silver hip flask. Nicotine stains darken his fingertips, and he always fidgets with a slim, brass fountain pen. On his left wrist is a cheap calculator watch, functional but clunky.

Maya wears a matte black bomber jacket, cropped close to her frame, with rainbow neon piping along the seams that shimmer in low light. Underneath, a slate-gray, high-neck tech-fabric shirt hugs her torso and highlights her angular build; the shirt’s sleeves end with thumbholes, leaving her calloused fingers exposed when typing. Skin-tight black cargo joggers, lined with hidden zipper pockets, emphasize both agility and utility. On her feet are minimalist, slip-on sneakers in solid graphite-gray, marked by discreet reflective accents for night work. She wears a discreet black fanny pack slung crossbody, filled with cables, a mini-tablet, and lockpicks, always within reach. Around her neck dangles a simple metal dog tag, its numbers worn smooth. Her ears are pierced with mismatched tiny silver studs—one bar, one circuit-shaped. Thick black rubber bracelets clutter one wrist, serving as both style and secret storage for USB drives. Clear-lens, square-cut glasses sit heavy on her nose, catching the city’s glow as she peers behind a digital wall.

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Trust Nina. Take her Hollywood getaway route, dodge the guards, escape through the penthouse garage with her at the wheel.

Go your own way. Lead the crew on a rougher Koreatown exit, risking a brawl and ditching the spotlight.

Sparks of mutual suspicion and undeniable chemistry flicker—trust rate middling, but attraction undeniable.

Longstanding loyalty; Sal’s trust in Frankie is solid, like brick and mortar.

Thin cooperation, trust barely above zero; alliances here are paper-thin and subject to flame.

Professional respect; trust is pragmatic, not heartfelt.

Go with Nina Varela: Take her route through Hollywood, trusting her charm and connections.

Follow Salvatore 'Big Sal' Gutierrez: Ditch Nina’s plan and make for Koreatown’s backstreets.

Frankie and Sal’s bond tightens—solidarity among professionals under fire. Small nod exchanged, trust reinforced. (Trust +1, Compatibility +1)

Underneath the flirting, the pulse quickens. Mutual suspicion softens—for now. (Trust +1, Attractiveness +1)

Go with Nina through Hollywood’s velvet rope—use charm, risk flash, and trust she’s got an angle but maybe a heart.

Side with Sal and disappear into Koreatown—ditch the glam, muscle through, and play it cold.

Tension buzzes—a tiny spike of trust, but suspicion rises. Nina seems both truth and trap.

Sal’s loyalty holds, but your wavering makes him anxious. He’s ready to follow or defend, whatever the fallout.

Relationship set to distant and unresolved. Trust burned; possibility of reunion fades to myth.

Relationship fractured; trust cost Sal his freedom. Frankie carries a weight—regret and respect tangled together.

Relationship splintered by practical necessity; Katz stays useful but never close.

Relationship faded—Maya erased herself from the grid, taking her secrets with her.

Trust with Nina has ruptured—her absence is half betrayal, half self-preservation. Whatever connection they had is spent, like the cash.

Sal’s loyalty leaves a hole. Frankie feels it every time he checks the mirror and finds one less friend worth trusting.

Maya’s gone, too. She left a burner phone with nothing on it but static. Some folks vanish before the fallout starts.

Tarnished Halos

Bright lights, broken dreams. That's Frankie DeLuca’s Los Angeles: sharp suits, colder hearts, and deals brokered in the shadows where nobody’s truly innocent. As Frankie, you’re chasing your piece of the City of Angels, but all the halos are tarnished, and every favor pulls you deeper—crooked cops want a cut, cartel kids flash cash and guns, and the movies? Just a smoke show for the real hustle in the alleys. The right word, the wrong move, a bullet with your name on it—pick your allies, cross your enemies, and pray the next mark isn’t you. Alongside you, there’s Nina Varela, a hustler with Hollywood looks and connections that don’t quit, and Big Sal Gutierrez, muscle with a code and a grudge. In this town, ambition’s a loaded gun—just hope your aim's better than theirs.

Tarnished Halos

Tarnished Halos

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