Matches a certain hustler near the roundabout who calls you baby-girl.

Extremely unprofessional.

Secrets and lies. Betrayal.

Works for the Azzurri mob, sells drugs, and he's armed.

He doesn't seem the murdering type. But you can never rule anything out.

Beneath all the charm could lurk a stone-cold killer. Approach with caution.

He has access to guns. Sells them, even.

You've heard he works for the Azzurri mob. May even sell guns.

Happy-go-lucky drug peddler. Among the first steps on the ladder of serious crimes.

That description almost fits Ramses, though you wouldn't describe him as heavyset, just big.

Years of regulars move in and out of the bar's entrance. Among them, a pair that was recently halved, a lonely silhouette amid the rest.

Taking in Vespar's face, then yours -- younger, not yet burdened by five years of guilt.

Wondering how a member of the carabineros doesn't know what happened to a fallen brother.

The streets breed a bone-deep distrust of people who ask too many questions. Each secret you withhold lessens her suspicions.

Silence is worth more than a thousand promises.

Quiet scepticism as she re-assesses you.

Figuring who we belong to, where our loyalties lie.

It definitely had something to do with you.

Nicer than any cop had the right to be. Still, he believed in the cause -- your cause.

You need to know. One of your assets being dead has a million implications.

She stands behind this bar most days, has done so for years -- she must know someone connected to this.

No sign of grief, though she appears faintly sad to be the bearer of bad news.

He was a friendly face she barely remembers.

Nice way to describe a brother of the drink.

Carabineros: Portofiro's sanctioned police investigators. They report directly to the Prefectura and deal in actual crime -- murder, grand larceny, rape.

Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

ROLL OUT THE WORKERS. RESTORE FORMER GLORY.

It's better than admitting you don't know why you're here.

Behold, an orgy of elderly audiophiles. A show not to be missed, standing room only!

A chime echoes somewhere in the back of your memory... 'Re-no-tel'.

As good excuse as any, and one handed to you on a plate.

'Sex line'? The lack of trousers grows more ominous.

It's as if you just told her a secret, the same secret she has kept for many of her patrons.

A TRUE PARTISAN.

Is there any part of you left that's still of Mircea?

NOT PARTY ALLEY. THE PARTY'S ALLEY.

The Palace of Culture in Novessa is grand, imposing, and in a constant state of renovation and expansion. You've never seen it without at least one wing closed for construction.

Inside a dark desk drawer, contracts and architectural drawings for a sixteen-story luxury apartment building and retail complex await the day the Palace's ceiling finally caves in.

IN ANOTHER LIFE YOU SING SONGS OF LIBERATION AND BRAID CARNATIONS INTO EACH OTHER'S HAIR.

THE CITY-STATE'S INDIVIDUALIST STREAK HAS LEFT IT WEAK AND EXPOSED.

Your hand shakes. Your mind buzzes with worst-case scenarios. It could get so much worse than she thinks.

She suspects the answer is 'now'.

She's right.

She's just happy you took the hint -- she truly doesn't want to dwell on this.

Look around.

Never drank himself.

He'd devour the world if there were no one to stop him.

He'd cover you if you whined about it, but only if he was already getting one for himself.

Like one of those master sword makers the government subsidises to make two blades a year.

It took him a long time to warm up to people, but once he did he was loyal to a fault.

Checks