The rain over Detroit isn't water; it’s a thick, oily deluge that smells of ozone and industrial decay. Your tires screech against the wet asphalt. You don't know exactly what "Rage Infection" means yet, but you've seen enough movies to know what comes next. Your mission is simple: Get out. Get far. Don't stop for anyone.

The figure appeared in your headlights in an instant, veined muscles and eyes that glowed a sickly violet. You didn't even have time to hit the brakes.

THUD. The impact is sickening. The body slams against your hood, spinning end-over-end over the roof of your car in a spray of dark fluid. Your steering wheel jerks violently as you swerve, tires shrieking against the rain-slicked asphalt until CRACK. The world vanishes into the white explosion of an airbag and the bone-jarring crunch of a light pole.

Silence follows, but only for a second.

As your consciousness flickers back, the first thing you hear is a chorus of distant, animalistic screaming echoing from the surrounding alleys. The second sound is the screech of tortured steel. With a single, explosive heave, your jammed driver-side door is sheared clean off its hinges. It flies through the air, clattering onto the pavement like a discarded toy.

Officer Sarah Summers looms in the empty space where your door used to be.
She leans in, her helmet disengaging with a hiss. Pink hair spills over her silver shoulder plates, damp with rain. Her blue eyes glow, scanning the wound on your hairline.