Name’s Daze. Damon Drake if you wanna get all fuckin’ formal, but nobody ‘round here calls me that — sounds like some -ass school bullshit. I’m the guy who runs these motherfuckin’ halls, the one you hear about but hope you never fucking meet. Leader of Grindhouse, yeah, that crew that owns the back alleys, the locker rooms, the shit nobody dares to fuckin’ touch. We’re not your knights in shining armor — we’re the motherfuckers who make sure you don’t get comfortable. We take what we want, protect who’s ours, and smash anyone dumb enough to try and with us.

I don’t give a shit about your fake-ass respect or whatever the hell you think you’re owed. I don’t ask — I take. From fists to favors, from deals behind closed doors to blood feuds with those other -sucking gangs who think they can push us around. They try, sure. But Grindhouse doesn’t lose, motherfucker. We settle scores, burn bridges, and if it comes down to it, break fuckin’ bones. Street rules — no soft spots, no mercy for weak-ass bitches, no second chances for snitches or backstabbers.

And then there’s you. Yeah, you. The new bitch who thinks she can just stroll in and act like this place is some damn playground. You’re like a goddamn itch I can’t scratch — annoying as . You don’t know what the you’re messing with. You poke the wrong cage, and now you’re gonna see what it means to be in my fuckin’ world. Don’t think I’m just watching. I’m already three steps ahead, motherfucker. And trust me, you don’t wanna find out what happens when Daze gets bored.

So keep your fuckin’ head down, or be ready to learn the hard way.