Beneath the half-torn GG billboard, the air hung heavy with grime and city dust.
A thin black man in a red hoodie and battered Converse sneakers looked around warily before flashing a hand sign shaped like a crooked "B". His lips twitched with a grin, as if he might start rapping at any moment.
Luca recognized it instantly. A gang sign — Bloods. No doubt about it.
But before he could even respond, something golden shimmered before his eyes.
Right above the man's head, glowing letters appeared, flickering like neon light in the smog.
Sin Points: 15,000
Bounty Points: 0
So, it had finally shown itself.
Luca stared for a moment, realization dawning. This must be his "golden finger"—his cheat ability, the mysterious gift of his rebirth. It allowed him to see a person's sin value.
When he had looked at his landlady and Lola earlier, there'd been nothing. That confirmed it—only criminals registered.
And the man in front of him? Definitely a sinner.
"Luca, I got a tip," the man muttered in a low, gravelly tone, one hand resting heavily on Luca's shoulder. "That Crip punk's holed up in an old RV on Ninety-Ninth Street tonight."
Luca turned slightly. The man's street name was Lone Wolf, a member of the Saints, a sub-branch of the Bloods gang.
Up close, Lone Wolf reeked of cheap cologne and gun oil. He sized Luca up, nodding slightly. Finally, the man had shed his clean, lawful air and looked like a real gangster—rough, unwashed, and dangerous. When Luca had first arrived in Watts, he'd been too neat, too proper. It had made the locals itch to beat him senseless.
But now, the transformation was complete.
The mention of the Crips brought old memories flooding back.
Formed in 1969, the Crips were one of the most violent and feared gangs in the United States. Murders, robberies, drugs, extortion—if it was dirty, the Crips had their hands in it. By this point, 1973, they ruled much of Los Angeles with thousands of members.
The Bloods, their sworn enemies, had emerged as a counterforce. Their feud had started years ago, when Crips founder Raymond Washington led an attack on a Compton high school, injuring students Sylvester Scott and Vincent Owens. Those two would later form their own alliances to fight back—the birth of the Bloods.
Luca remembered reading about it in OGD archives. The Bloods and Crips rivalry would grow into one of the most violent street wars in American history.
Originally, OGD had wanted him to infiltrate the Crips directly. But they were racially closed—only black members could join. As a Mexican, Luca had no chance. So, the strategy shifted: embed him within the Bloods, who were newer, looser, and willing to take outsiders.
In his predecessor's memories, he'd spent three long months scraping by in the Watts district before finally earning Lone Wolf's trust and being brought into the Saints as an affiliate—not a full member yet, just a pawn, a runner, a lookout. The kind of man who usually died before the end of Act One.
"What do you want me to do?" Luca asked, tone flat, expression unreadable.
Lone Wolf leaned in closer, his voice low. "A few days ago, the Crips killed our rep on Ninety-Ninth Street. That bastard in the RV's one of their spies. I want you to take care of him. Bare hands. Make him talk, then finish it. Do that, and you're one of us."
Ninety-Ninth Street belonged to the Saints. Every block in Watts had its gang. And every recruit had to prove their loyalty with a blood offering.
Killing a Crip was the fastest way in.
The "bare hands" part wasn't a request—it was a test. They wanted to see if he had the guts and strength to survive on the street.
Luca didn't hesitate. He needed in, and he needed money. Gang members got a cut of street taxes, protection money, and racket profits—enough to keep him afloat.
But before he could speak, his stomach growled loud enough to make Lone Wolf frown.
"Damn it," Luca muttered under his breath. Two days without food, running on nothing but alcohol. His body was on the verge of collapse.
Lone Wolf gave him a long look. "You sure you can handle this, man? You look half-dead already. The church's feeding run is later today. Grab something to eat before you pass out on me. I'm not giving you a second chance."
By late afternoon, Ninety-Ninth Street was buzzing.
"Hey, brothers! Food truck's here again!" someone shouted down the line.
A long queue wound down the cracked pavement—men, women, kids, all hollow-eyed and desperate. Voices rose in laughter and gratitude as food was passed out.
Luca stood among them, blending in with the beggars. The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, and the stench of rot. He kept his hood low and his head down, waiting.
The United States was suffering. The Vietnam War had drained its soul, the oil crisis had crushed the economy, and unemployment was sky-high. Thousands were living on the streets, hopeless and forgotten.
Churches and charities had become their only refuge.
The one here—the Cathedral of the Holy Grace—was the largest in Los Angeles. It ran the city's biggest food relief network, even maintaining a division known as the Department of Mercy.
This wasn't Luca's first time here. His predecessor had been coming for weeks. His good looks made him memorable—especially to one of the nuns.
"Luca León," said a soft voice. He looked up to see Sister Elizabeth, a young woman with clear blue eyes, holding out a piece of bread and a cup of hot milk. Her voice trembled with pity.
"I told you before—don't sink to their level. If you keep living like this, you'll destroy yourself completely."
Her words hit a nerve. Once a man fell into homelessness in America, it was almost impossible to climb out. No address meant no job, and no job meant no home. It was a loop that ate people alive.
But Luca couldn't tell her the truth. Couldn't explain the undercover mission, the deception, the risk. He simply took the food, smiled faintly, and murmured, "Thank you. God bless you, Sister."
"Let it go, Elizabeth," said an older nun nearby. "Boys like him choose the gutter. You can't save someone who won't save himself."
Luca didn't react. He turned away, walking toward a graffiti-smeared wall, scanning the crowd carefully. His eyes locked on a tall, thin man standing a few places away.
Golden text shimmered above the man's head.
Sin Points: 10,000
Bounty Points: 0
There he was—the Crip informant.
He wasn't wearing blue, probably trying to blend in among the beggars.
Luca took a bite of the bread, chewing slowly. The milk was warm but bland. He grimaced.
American food had no soul.
Back when he'd been a cop, he'd always sought out the little Chinese diners—places where the food was alive with flavor, spice, and stories.
But as he swallowed, a strange warmth spread through him.
[Buckwheat bread and hot milk enter your stomach. Wonderful. Energy restored.]
[Your weak body is recovering. Life surges anew.]
An interface flickered into existence before his eyes, like a floating display only he could see.
Survival | Combat | Knowledge | Engineering | Medicine…
Only Survival was active. The others remained locked. A single golden card gleamed brightly among them.
[Vagrant (Identity): Child of the Streets]
Gifted with exceptional endurance and adaptability. Recovers stamina quickly with minimal sustenance. Immune to most toxins and diseases. Condition: Unlocked.
Luca's mind raced. The Sin Points were a currency — and this system, his shop.
He had already unlocked the Vagrant identity. That tiny bit of food had restored his strength in seconds.
For him, right now, it was a lifeline — the perfect survival edge.
He finished the rest of the bread, feeling his energy return. His limbs no longer trembled. The dizziness faded. As the sun dipped behind the rooftops, he stepped out of the food line, eyes locked on the thin man slipping into the alley beyond.
The night wind carried the smell of rust and sweat.
Luca exhaled slowly. His heartbeat steadied.
It was time.