Lean into Amelia Serrano’s plan—play the long con inside the towers of Aurelia's elite.

Join Rayden and Cleo in a direct heist—strike hard against the city’s tech lords.

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Vesper Divide

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Storm Deals at Vesper Divide

Follow Amelia’s play—accept one last, dangerous betrayal to cement your power.

Sable Heights Penthouse Level

Glass Labyrinths and Shadowed Leverage

Trust Cleo’s lightning hack—follow the shadow circuit for a clean digital heist and silent escape.

The Data Dome

Smoke Thieves and Code Ghosts

Sky Landing, Sable Heights

Fallen Through Glass

Shadow Alley, Neon Undergrid

Shadow Circuit

Deion Marcus

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Amelia Serrano

Rayden Jax

Cleo Vallas

Jonas Kells

Masculine. Deion's voice is mid-range, roughened by city grit, marked by a faint urban accent that blends Aurelian street slang with hints of Black American vernacular. His tone is sharp, direct, and slightly wary—shot through with cynical humor and flashes of genuine empathy when caught off-guard. Pacing is brisk and adaptive, quickening when hustling or under pressure, but deliberate when negotiating or reading the room. His pronunciation is clear but clipped, sometimes dropping syllables to match the city’s pace, lending an edge of tough informality. His voice always rides a line between charm and warning; the world-weariness is undercut by ambition, making every word feel like a calculated bet.

Feminine. Amelia’s voice carries the steady, controlled cadence of someone used to commanding attention—her Latina roots are evident in subtle inflections and rolled R’s, though her accent is muted due to years in political circles. The tone is calm, unyielding, and edged with a cold charisma, never betraying more emotion than she intends. She speaks with precise enunciation and a measured, deliberate pace, each word carefully chosen as if it might tip negotiations. Her voice rarely rises, but when it does, the undercurrent of resolve can silence a room. Personal ambition and guarded vulnerability radiate through, projecting both intellect and the weight of buried secrets.

Masculine. Rayden speaks in a low, gravelly register, with the slightest trace of a Midwestern American accent worn down by years of travel and disillusionment. His tone is monotone and measured, sometimes teetering on intimidating—used to letting his silences speak as loudly as his words. Pacing is slow and economical, wasting no words and often letting pauses do the work. His pronunciation is blunt and direct, lacking flourish or embellishment, every word landing with controlled intent. Beneath the stoic surface lies a conscience that occasionally cracks through, especially when pushed to defend or protect, lending rare warmth to his otherwise distant delivery.

Feminine. Cleo’s voice bursts with youthful energy and irreverent charm, her accent a collision of contemporary American urban slang with hints of West Coast playfulness. The tone is quick, lively, and mischievous—always ready to laugh or taunt, but never far from irony or exasperation. She speaks in a rapid, animated cadence, words tumbling out in sync with her impulsive thoughts, often with exaggerated emphasis on slang or digital jargon. Her pronunciation is crisp but can slide into playful distortion, especially when making jokes or mocking authority. The voice is inherently magnetic, broadcasting a wild confidence that draws people in and keeps them guessing.

Masculine. Jonas has a gravelly, worn-out voice, overlaid by a husky tone suggestive of late nights and too many cigarettes. His accent is neutral with a faint, indistinct metropolitan inflection, occasionally tinged by Middle Eastern undertones in vowel sounds. He speaks in a slow, weary drawl, sometimes pausing as if hunting for the right word or weighed down by the gravity of memory. Pronunciation is rough at the edges but pointed, especially when interrogating or signaling rare moments of compassion. His personality lends the voice a dogged persistence and cynicism, occasionally breaking into a sardonic warmth with those he trusts.

Androgynous. The Narrator’s voice is smooth and resonant, accented with a subtle, indeterminate urban lilt that never overpowers clarity. The tone is reflective, tinged with melancholy and a quiet undercurrent of intrigue, maintaining a careful composure that matches the city’s tense dynamism. Pacing is unhurried but never languid—each phrase weighted to evoke atmosphere, images, and suspense. Pronunciation is precise and evocative, lending poetic flow to descriptions of both character motives and cityscape. The Narrator’s delivery captures a balance of detached observation and knowing intimacy, drawing listeners into Aurelia’s shadows while respecting the complexity of every soul found there.

You wear the city’s doubts on your shoulders and move through its storm-lit veins with the pace of a man who’s spent too long trading minutes for promises. Deion knows every shortcut and trap in Aurelia; he’s quick with wit and quick with his fists—a hustler breathing in the static and smoke of urban limbo. Every negotiation is a tightrope of risk, every handshake a potential betrayal. He weighs the measure of a soul as easily as a stolen wallet, speaking in currency more than words—his own voice clipped, the cadence of resignation cut with ambition.

Amelia commands rooms and riots with the poise of a queen encircled by knives. She’s built a facade out of relentlessly chased ideals and hard bargains, every word weighed for both allies and enemies. Her secrets run deeper than the city’s utility tunnels—dossiers, grudges, and blackmail form her private currency. She carries every betrayal as a lesson, and never forgets a face, a debt, or a name.

Rayden is a wall—old bruises and discipline in human form, testimony to battles won and lost. He speaks rarely, letting silence fill the cracks where trust used to live. Every movement is measured, efficient; every look can pin a threat to the concrete. He isn’t just haunted by what he’s done, but by what he’s had to become. The city tries to outpace him; he hunts it with calm purpose.

Cleo is the city’s rumor in drifting form—half-whisper, half-myth, all hustle. She owes nothing to anyone but the night, running digital rackets and side bets beneath the city’s grid. Her laugh cuts like broken neon; her loyalty lasts exactly as long as the odds are good. She trades in secrets and favors, never staying still long enough for the fallout to catch up.

Jonas is what happens when idealism curdles into vigilance. A detective on indefinite suspension, he works cases the force abandoned—sometimes for justice, sometimes for his own redemption. He wears the past like an unshakable overcoat, grime and all. He’s relentless, cynical, but cracks now and then show through—a softness for those the city chews up and spits out.

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Rain-Slick Hustler’s Ensemble

Powerbroker’s Raincoat Suit

Tactical Urban Operator Gear

Neon Phantom Streetwear

Weathered Detective’s Trench

Deion's outfit is built for both speed and subterfuge: a graphite-gray bomber jacket in water-resistant nylon, edged with reflective tape that catches passing neon. Underneath, he wears a faded burgundy hooded sweatshirt—hood always up in the rain—layered over a charcoal ribbed tank that hints at his wiry build. Slim-fit black cargo pants with tapered ankles provide room for movement, with zipped pockets for quick stashes. Worn, high-top sneakers in matte black are flecked with city grit and scuffed around the soles, reinforced by weathered silver eyelets. Across his chest is a battered, olive-green crossbody bag adorned with metal patches and an old subway token. On his left wrist, a scratch-marked knockoff smartwatch perpetually flashes and flickers. The scar slicing from his left eyebrow to his temple is rarely hidden, emphasized by the sharp angles of his close-cut hair and the dark, utilitarian beanie he sometimes pulls low. Faded dog tags peek from his neckline, and simple silver rings—two per hand—flash when he moves. His look is completed by a battered ampersand pendant, tribute to debts both paid and pending, and fingerless black gloves with reinforced knuckles for nights when talking isn’t enough.

Amelia strides through Aurelia's chaos in a sharply tailored midnight-navy pantsuit, cut from lightweight Italian wool, the jacket structured and single-breasted with sleek lapels and gunmetal buttons. Her trousers are straight-legged and gently pressed, grazing black leather Chelsea boots that shine, wicked with a hint of silver on the zippers. Over her suit, she drapes a long, storm-gray cashmere trench coat, belted tightly at the waist, collar often popped against the rain or scrutiny. A pale silk blouse, cream with delicate herringbone stripes visible only in certain lights, is fastened at the throat with a slender mother-of-pearl button. Her thick hair is pulled into a low, immaculate chignon, revealing a discreet gold cartilage cuff and matching small stud earrings. Thin leather gloves—matte, dark pearl—shield her hands, and on her left wrist glints a vintage silver-and-onyx watch. A slim crossbody satchel clings to her frame, its matte black finish impeccably clean but sporting a hidden zip at the side for secret compartments. She frequently clutches a leather dossier folder, battered at the corners, stuffed with files and scraps of coded paper, and her pale amber eyes seem sharper against the backdrop of clean, pressed lines and rain-beaded wool. The jawline beneath the collar carries the faintest trace of scar—and the steel of a survivor.

Rayden’s signature look starts with a weathered slate-black tactical field jacket, the lightweight canvas reinforced at the shoulders and elbows, sporting faded Velcro patches, a stowable hood, and subtle armored lining beneath. Underneath, he wears a form-fitting deep navy performance shirt, moisture-wicking and long-sleeved, the cuffs bearing the faint outline of old service tattoos. His pants are heavy-duty utility cargoes in a muted olive green; reinforced knees and pockets cradle a multitool, lock picks, and a folded schematic. Steel-toed black boots, scuffed and mud-stained, are laced tightly, with paracord anklets barely visible above the sole lines. A tactical belt threaded with MOLLE loops holds a clipped carabiner and a secure drop pouch, always stocked for emergencies. His light hair is barely visible beneath a worn black baseball cap marked with a stitched monochrome insignia—a nod to past units—and polarized wraparound shades rest periodically on its brim. Fingerless tactical gloves hug his scarred hands, offering both grip and freedom, while a muscle-fit, dark charcoal utility vest sits over his shirt, loaded with hidden pockets and a subtle bulletproof lining. A dogtag pendant, smudged and worn thin by touch, hangs beneath his collar, and a specialized black car key fob dangles from his right cargo strap, gleaming in the city’s neon glare. The whole ensemble betrays no affiliation but survival—and a predator’s patience for the hunt.

Cleo's style is a vivid collision of street energy and digital rebellion: she sports an oversized, cropped black bomber jacket with holographic trim that ripples from blue to magenta when it catches the city lights. Her jet-black, asymmetric bob peeks out under a deep electric-blue snapback, worn backward and tagged with a luminous white glyph. Beneath the jacket is a high-neck mesh tank in sapphire, layered over a black sports bralette and studded with iridescent microchips built into the seams. She wears fitted graphite gray joggers streaked with reflective blue piping, cinched tight above neon purple high-top trainers lit with programmable LED soles. Her arms and hands are adorned with animated neon tattoos—snakes and circuit motifs that glow and shimmer with her movements, extending up her fingers and knuckles. A fingerless pair of conductive gloves completes her hands, allowing quick hacking in a second's notice. Around her neck hangs a choker made of woven fiber-optic filaments, softly pulsing to the rhythm of her tech. Interactive smartbands line both wrists, flashing messages and displaying running street odds, while a crossbody mini-satchel in translucent magenta vinyl clings to her hip, spilling tracer wires and mystery USB sticks. Her augmented electric blue eyes, set with digital overlays, pierce the shadows—an unmistakable beacon in the city’s gloom.

Jonas embodies the archetype of the haggard city detective with a long, storm-battered trench coat in weathered oxblood leather, stained darker at the cuffs and seams from years of relentless city rain. Under the coat, he wears a crumpled charcoal button-down shirt, stitched at the collar but missing the top button, with a faded maroon tie—always slightly askew—slackened by fatigue. His trousers are heavy, slate-gray wool with a permanent press ruined by time, tucked into battered coffee-brown oxfords with visible scuffs and mismatched laces. A rumpled taupe V-neck sweater clings beneath the shirt, bearing the occasional cigarette burn and frayed at both sleeves. His belt, worn and cracked, hosts a retro-styled leather holster and an old pocket notebook, edges curled and stained with ink. Jonas sports no jewelry save for a battered braided wedding ring of dull silver and a matched pair of dog-eared reading glasses, their left arm taped at the hinge. The trench’s inner lining bristles with hidden pockets: metro maps, faded case photos, a battered police badge wrapped in wax paper. His salt-and-pepper hair, thinning around the crown, is covered only by the shadow of his upturned collar, and a frayed navy scarf knotted at his throat offers scant protection from the city’s cold. The whole look—weathered, functional, unbowed—signals a man who belongs to Aurelia’s midnight, not its daylight.

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The poster should include no text. The art style of the poster should be Comic Noir. The setting is a sprawling, modern metropolis in an alternate reality 2020s—an urban landscape blending sleek skyscrapers with neon-lit streets, cast in sharp contrasts of inky shadows and vibrant, glowing colors. The poster is widescreen, landscape orientation, with a bold, well-defined border. 
Foreground: The three protagonists stand in a triangulated formation: Deion Marcus, a gritty street hustler with determined eyes and urban streetwear, stands at the front, half-turned and poised for action, his silhouette outlined by pulsating city lights. To his right, Amelia Serrano, the embattled political queen, exudes tense confidence in a sharply tailored suit and a shadowed expression, clutching a dossier of secrets. On the left, Rayden Jax, a weathered ex-special forces operative, stares out from beneath the brim of a tactical cap, muscle and resolve evident as he grips a customized car key fob. Flashes of neon and city reflections ripple over their faces, hinting at their hidden motives and fractured alliance. Behind them, the gleaming glass towers of Aurelia City loom, some windows aglow, some shattered, with patrolling police drones and helicopters swirling above. 
Background: A rich panorama of Aurelia City sprawls from dusk into night, divided by elevated roads and arteries of neon—chaotic, rain-slicked alleys snake through energetic districts brimming with crowds, illegal races, and digital billboards. In one sector, a police cruiser screams through a chase; in another, shadowy figures huddle in backroom deals. Faint silhouettes of protestors clash with riot police at the base of the towers while a high-tech car, mid-drift, blurs past in the foreground, echoing the urgency and stakes. Above, rain falls in angular lines, accentuating the noir mood, while lightning cracks in the distance, illuminating fleeting moments of betrayal and hope. The entire image is saturated in a moody, chromatic palette—deep blues, lurid magentas, and stark whites—projecting both the danger and allure of urban survival. Every element channels a world teetering between ambition, crime, and faded morality, in the unmistakable graphic style of comic noir.

Back Amelia Serrano's play—follow her into Sable Heights for a high-stakes political negotiation, risking double-cross and exposure.

Go with Rayden Jax and loop in Cleo Vallas—undertake a covert heist in the Data Dome, aiming to undermine the syndicate.

Trust: 4/10 — A business partnership salted with mutual suspicion. Tension simmers under civility.

Respect and rivalry blend—Rayden eyes Deion, tension spiked by the looming decision. Trust: 6/10.

Side with Amelia Serrano at Sable Heights's political negotiation.

Join Rayden Jax and Cleo Vallas for the Data Dome heist.

Trust teeters between Deion and Amelia: wary partnership, sharp edges exposed by the storm. Trust: 4/10

Support Amelia Serrano at Sable Heights—navigate a risky political negotiation with the city’s elite.

Side with Rayden Jax and Cleo Vallas for the Data Dome heist—strike at the syndicate from below.

Trust in Amelia increases by +1 if Deion chooses her path; loyalty cost with Rayden and Cleo rises. A misstep here could freeze out old allies, but move Deion into Aurelia’s glass corridors.

Backing Rayden and Cleo strengthens street trust at the cost of Amelia’s patience. The heist route promises action, but paints a bigger target on Deion’s back.

Trust plummets: Even as the gun rises, you see her choose survival over solace—a final crack through a long, broken bond.

Her trust in Deion irrevocably shattered—her choice cements her place in the city’s dark pantheon, at the price of the last piece of her conscience.

Rayden’s loyalty fragments—caught between vengeance and retreat. His faith in alliances is mortally wounded.

Cleo’s trust in both leaders ends in disillusionment; her legend mutates into one of caution and cold business.

Jonas realizes no justice is clean in Aurelia. He becomes the city’s chronicler, voice of grim lessons he’ll never forget.

Glass Towers, Broken Deals

You step into the shoes of Deion Marcus, whose name echoes through the alleys and high-rises of Aurelia City—a metropolis shadowed by ambition, betrayal, and violence. By nightfall, city lights transform into hunting grounds for hustlers, politicians, and soldiers, each desperate to rewrite their corner of a fading future. With every decision, the line between survival and damnation blurs; every heartbeat becomes a wager in games run by fate and crooked men. You join forced hands with Amelia Serrano, a city council queen staking her last chips, and Rayden Jax, a retired commando haunted by covert sins. Together, you orchestrate heists, outmaneuver the relentless task force, and barter power in a world where trust is as expendable as lives. The city watches, and every shadow remembers.

Glass Towers, Broken Deals

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