A desolate prison island, the Iron Nexus, looms large, casting a shadow over the turbulent waters that surround it. An individual, their face etched with the weight of experience, stands tall and dark, speaking with a voice tinged by both despair and hopelessness.

“The world as we knew it was dying,” they declare, their gaze piercing though as if searching for understanding in the eyes of anyone who’d listen. “No matter what anyone tells you, this planet has been lawless for at least two millennia—perhaps even longer, depending on whom you ask. Humanity had succumbed to such unruly and malevolent behavior. The world…it was truly in shambles, a chaotic tapestry woven with threads of despair and destruction. It needed to be fixed.”

They pause, their expression darkening as they reflect on the chaos that surrounded them. “An ever-growing hell, expanding relentlessly, even when tended to. What could anyone possibly do in the face of such despair?”

Then, their voice shifts, infused with a fervent energy. “But then, out of nowhere, a gift from the heavens was bestowed upon us—a miracle known as PoM. It felt like a fairytale, a cure for all the world’s ailments that emerged as if summoned by our deepest hopes. Just a handful was all it took.”

With growing intensity, they continue, “Violence was culled, the sinister criminals and genetic anomalies alike were restrained. Felonious offenders were captured and brought to justice. All of it was made possible by PoM—the Preservers of Mankind!”

The stark contrast between the grim landscape of the Iron Nexus and the hopeful vision of a healed world hangs in the air, leaving one to ponder the fragile balance between salvation and chaos.

In the heart of a dystopian Las Vegas, where neon lights flickered against a backdrop of despair. Colorful lights gleamed erratically, casting garish hues over streets teeming with boisterous nightlife and unspeakable crimes. The oppressive regime known as PoM ruled casually with an iron grip, asserting control over most aspects of life. The night life and vibrancy of the city served as a facade, masking the pervasive decay that gripped its inhabitants. On the anniversary of PoM's establishment, the streets buzzed with not only its usual nightlife but the chaos of a parade, a grotesque spectacle designed to distract the masses from the grim reality of their existence.

Amidst the throngs of parade-goers, Mori moved like a shadow—an enigmatic figure of quiet intensity.

Mori was a tall, lean young man with rich brown skin that seemed to absorb the ambient light around him. His slender frame masked a surprising muscularity, hinting at a life of rigorous training and discipline. His dreadlocks cascaded down his shoulders, framing a face characterized by slit eyes that often carried an air of boredom or disinterest, giving him an aloof demeanor. A vacant mask of silence, devoid of emotion or expression, unsettling in its inhuman gaze. Yet, when the moment called for it, his face would erupt with vivid expression and raw emotion, revealing a depth of passion and colorful intensity beneath his blank visage.

He was clad in an all-black tactical full-zip coat with a high collar and a hood that could be pulled up to obscure his features, adding an air of mystery. The coat was adorned with a series of intriguing pins, subtle markers of his identity. A rugged combat satchel, worn but still properly maintained, hung across his shoulder, ready to contain essential gear and tools. His sturdy combat boots and loose-fitting tactical pants prioritized both mobility and resilience, designed to withstand the rigors of any environment. With a metal baseball bat strapped to his back.

Every element of his attire was purposeful. Pouches were securely fastened to his thighs and waist, ensuring quick access to supplies, while black straps wound tightly around his legs—some hanging loosely—prepared to deploy tools or weapons instantly. His hands were protected by reinforced gloves that balanced protection with dexterity. Around his neck, a mysterious ivory bone necklace with intricate sigils gleamed subtly.

Poised for his upcoming mission, Mori’s entire appearance radiated a calculated blend of intrigue, readiness, and exuded a quiet confidence. He was calmly elated, prepared, and on the brink of action, his presence both reassuring and formidable.

The vibrant scenes of Sin City unfolded around him: the pulsating lights and booming music of club neon, the bustling streets of Chinatown, the comforting familiarity of Benny BooHoo’s Diner, and the glittering allure of the Casino. Mori’s past was as murky as the darkened alleyways and rooftops he prowled, filled with secrets and moral compromises. Mori navigated the treacherous waters of a city rife with corruption, where survival often meant making deals with devils. Today, he was on a transactional mission, one that in his mind required a delicate balance of cunning and brutality. His contact, Jackie Mao, had promised to help him forge an alliance with another shady contact, but the price for Jackie’s favor was steep—an ethical burden that weighed heavily on Mori's already fragile sense of morality.