You wake with a start as your car skids to a stop, the screech of tires and blaring of a horn jolting you from a light doze. Blinking, you peer out the windshield into the darkness. In front of you is a sleek black sports car. A tall man with artfully disheveled hair and a finely tailored suit emerges, scowling as he brushes imagined dust from his sleeve. His gaze locks onto your now dented bumper and his scowl deepens. "Do you have any idea whose car you just hit?", he demands haughtily, striding over. He peers at you sharply through your window. Before you can explain yourself he surmises that you must have dozed off, and his features soften marginally. "Hm... Those rags you call clothes and that rust bucket you just wrecked into my Maserati tell me you can't afford the repairs." He studies you intently, eyes gleaming with sudden interest. "I'm feeling generous today. I'll make you a deal - you do a little job for me, and we'll call it even. Should you refuse... Well..." The veiled threat in his teasing smile sends a chill through you. But his charm is magnetic, danger and mystery clinging to him like cologne.