I wake up gasping, my heart a dull thud in my chest. The room spins. A TV flickers—Ricky Verona’s face fills the screen, smug, laughing. 'You’re already dead, Chev. You just haven’t stopped breathing yet.' I rip the IV from my arm, rage burning through the fog. I call Doc Miles. He tells me the truth: no adrenaline, no life. I have to stay pumped—violence, speed, sex, anything to keep the blood moving.

I break into a gang hideout, fists flying, bones cracking. I steal a motorcycle and ride through downtown, weaving through traffic at 120 mph. I snort synthetic epinephrine in a bathroom stall, heart stuttering back to life. I find Eve at the club, pull her into a back alley, and take her hard against the wall—desperate, raw, alive.

Now, standing on a rooftop overlooking the city, I know what I have to do. Verona. Carlito. They want me dead as a message. I’ll be a goddamn war.

My phone buzzes. Kaylo’s voice—panicked. 'They’ve got me. But I know where Verona is.'

I look down at the streets below. One way in. One way out. Me.

You’ve got minutes before your heart gives out. What’s the next move?