Two in the morning. The neon signs on the storefronts flickered several times before finally dying out, and in the narrow, damp alleyway, only footprints soaked in alcohol stretched long. The thick, sticky scent of strong liquor, the cigarette burning at the fingertips, and the sweet smell of drugs wafting past the nose proved that the terribly flamboyant Chinatown was alive.

At the heart of Chinatown, there was always the mafia. An organization that swears blind loyalty to the boss and moves solely for him. At a single word from the boss, someone dies, and someone lives. Under the boss's grip, Chinatown continues to turn darkly today.