THE VICEHAVEN VENDETTA

Vicehaven

A city with neon veins and rotten bones. Towers of glass cracked like old teeth; alleys that stank of stale beer, piss, and yesterday's blood. The streets glowed orange in the rain but the glow only made the gutters shine darker, slick with oil rainbows and cigarette ends drowning in puddles.

Here, everything is borrowed - your breath, your heartbeat, your time. Everyone owes a debt, and Vicehaven always collects. Some pay with silence. Some with skin. Most with their souls.

Down every corner, you can hear its appetite: bottles breaking, sirens crying, the wet slap of fists in the dark. And above it all, neon sings its false lullaby, buzzing signs painted over brothels and casinos - lipstick smeared across a corpse.

The Devil runs this city. He wears suits cut sharper than knives, gold in his smile, blood on his hands.
And the angels? They left a long time ago, their wings sold, their halos pawned, their names long forgotten.

Vicehaven doesn't raise saints. It only fattens devils.