🖋 CHAPTER 1: While the City Sleeps
Los Santos never slept at night. It just changed faces. The glass towers that gleamed under the midday sun looked like tombstones after dark. As neon signs flickered through the rain, the streets dissolved into a filthy dream. The air was heavy, a thick blend of wet asphalt, gasoline, and rotting garbage. The distant wail of police sirens echoed—a sound so routine that no one bothered to look anymore.
Adrian Vale sat on the apartment rooftop. The concrete was freezing. He leaned his back against the old water tank. The cigarette between his fingers burned unevenly because of the rain. The wind blew the smoke back into his face, but he didn't care. He looked down at the city below. Red brake lights… flickering streetlamps… people shouting in an alleyway… Los Santos looked beautiful from a distance. Up close, it bared its teeth.
When Adrian was a child, his mother had told him something: “This city kills good people slowly.” He hadn't understood it back then. Now, he did.
The phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the screen.
MARCUS
Adrian closed his eyes for a few seconds. He took a deep breath before opening them, then finally brought the phone to his ear.
"What is it?"
The sound of a lighter clicked on the other end. Then Marcus spoke.
"Brother... I can hear the overdue rent dripping from your voice."
Adrian didn't reply. Marcus gave a soft chuckle. There was no humor in that laugh. It felt more like a cold blade pressed against the nape of a neck.
"I asked if you need work," Marcus said.
"What kind of job?"
"If it were easy, I wouldn't be calling you."
The rain picked up. Adrian looked over the edge of the roof. Below, police lights flashed red and blue. Someone was dying again. The city was just having another normal night.
Marcus spoke again. "Listen, Adrian... In this city, you either sit at the table... or you're on the menu."
The line went dead quiet. Adrian involuntarily clenched his jaw.
"Where's the place?"
Marcus didn’t answer right away this time. It felt intentional. He clearly liked being in control.
"The Terminal district," he said. "One AM. If you're late, it’s not a disrespect to yourself... it’s a disrespect to me."
The call ended. Adrian stared at the dark reflection on the screen. For a split second, he saw his own face. He looked just like his father. The thought hit his stomach like a punch. He stood up.
The rainwater gathered under his boots trickled down the edge of the roof. He shoved his hands into his pockets but noticed his fingers were trembling slightly. It wasn't from the cold. The feeling inside him was growing. Sometimes, a person could feel the exact moment their life was about to change. Without knowing why. They just knew it by the darkness sinking into their chest.
His apartment was on the third floor. The hallway smelled of mildew. The fluorescent bulb on the ceiling flickered constantly, dying out. When he opened the door, silence greeted him. It was a heavy kind of silence. The kind that forced a man to think.
There was half a loaf of bread in the kitchen. Dirty dishes in the sink. Unpaid bills on the table. His life was rotting away in pieces.
He walked into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. Ice-cold water filled his palms. It took his breath away the moment he splashed it onto his face. Looking in the mirror, he saw the dark hollows under his eyes. There used to be anger in them. Now, there was only exhaustion.
His father used to stare into the mirror just like this. In the dead of night. Silently. As if he were afraid of the man inside the glass. One night, when Adrian was eight years old, he had seen his father's hands covered in blood. He had never explained what happened. He just cleaned the sink. And didn't speak a word until morning.
That night, for the first time, Adrian understood that some people cross over to places they can never return from. Looking at his own face in the mirror now, he felt that exact same fear.
Slowly, he pulled open the drawer. Took out his old pistol. The metal was cold. As he tucked it into his waistband, a single thought crossed his mind:
“Normal people don't carry a gun when they go to work at night.”
