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Description

Venturing into a world of creativity: In this exploration of Sin City, I introduce new faces, each a figment of my imagination, weaving their stories into its tapestry of shadows and light. Please note, this is purely for enjoyment and not for commercial use.

Benedict "Big Ben," the man who makes the minutes count in Sin City's ceaseless tick.

Time's a luxury I can't afford, not with the mountain of work I've got waiting. Clock's ticking, relentless and unforgiving, just like the city I'm tethered to.

As I head back to my beat-up Chevy, I spot him. A guy in an expensive-looking trench coat, the kind that screams money and trouble. He moves like a panther, sleek but something's off, something in the way he... you can almost feel he thinks wrong... something hungry.

He's staring, eyes locked on mine like he's trying to unravel my story from across the street.
I ain't got time for this dance, not tonight. So I keep walking, boots splashing through the gutter's tears, and like a ghost in the mist, he fades away, just another mystery in a city full of 'em.

Now, where was I? Ah, yeah, the rendezvous with the undercover cop. He's got a way to clean up my mess, scrub my slate clean, but the price ain't cheap. He wants something rare, something that reeks of Old Town, a place where even the bravest cops don't tread, where the shadows run the show.

That's where I'm headed. Where every corner turned could be your last. But that's the job. That's the life I chose. In Sin City, you don't pick your poisons; they pick you.

The old-timer, that's what they call him, a relic in a city that chews up history and spits it out. Got a tip about him from a face I helped out of a jam once—said he was the kind to hold a favor like a gambler holds an ace.

The rain's got a knack for blurring lines, for turning the world into a watercolor of grays and deeper grays. Tonight, it's doing its best to wash away the ink on a scrap of paper that's supposed to lead me to the Old-Timer. My fingers, worn and steady, fish it out from my leather jacket—a paper shield in a downpour of doubt.

The address is a smudge, but legible enough for a man with a mission. Call it luck, call it fate—I call it another night in Sin City.

I find myself drawn back to the rain-drenched streets, compelled to follow this path once more.

Benedict, infamously known as 'Big Ben,' never shy from the shadows; I'm the one who casts them.

Description

Venturing into a world of creativity: In this exploration of Sin City, I introduce new faces, each a figment of my imagination, weaving their stories into its tapestry of shadows and light. Please note, this is purely for enjoyment and not for commercial use.

Benedict "Big Ben," the man who makes the minutes count in Sin City's ceaseless tick.

Time's a luxury I can't afford, not with the mountain of work I've got waiting. Clock's ticking, relentless and unforgiving, just like the city I'm tethered to.

As I head back to my beat-up Chevy, I spot him. A guy in an expensive-looking trench coat, the kind that screams money and trouble. He moves like a panther, sleek but something's off, something in the way he... you can almost feel he thinks wrong... something hungry.

He's staring, eyes locked on mine like he's trying to unravel my story from across the street.
I ain't got time for this dance, not tonight. So I keep walking, boots splashing through the gutter's tears, and like a ghost in the mist, he fades away, just another mystery in a city full of 'em.

Now, where was I? Ah, yeah, the rendezvous with the undercover cop. He's got a way to clean up my mess, scrub my slate clean, but the price ain't cheap. He wants something rare, something that reeks of Old Town, a place where even the bravest cops don't tread, where the shadows run the show.

That's where I'm headed. Where every corner turned could be your last. But that's the job. That's the life I chose. In Sin City, you don't pick your poisons; they pick you.

The old-timer, that's what they call him, a relic in a city that chews up history and spits it out. Got a tip about him from a face I helped out of a jam once—said he was the kind to hold a favor like a gambler holds an ace.

The rain's got a knack for blurring lines, for turning the world into a watercolor of grays and deeper grays. Tonight, it's doing its best to wash away the ink on a scrap of paper that's supposed to lead me to the Old-Timer. My fingers, worn and steady, fish it out from my leather jacket—a paper shield in a downpour of doubt.

The address is a smudge, but legible enough for a man with a mission. Call it luck, call it fate—I call it another night in Sin City.

I find myself drawn back to the rain-drenched streets, compelled to follow this path once more.

Benedict, infamously known as 'Big Ben,' never shy from the shadows; I'm the one who casts them.