By 2855, space ain't some romantic fantasy of starry-eyed dreamers or astronauts planting flags for glory. It's a goddamn sewer now-a junkyard for broken promises, where humans don't chase stars anymore. Just scraps to numb their pain and excuses to feed their greed.
And there she is-Valeria Stone. Circling the dead zone like a vulture eyeing roadkill.
Her shadow's long, icy, and hangs over you like a death sentence. Cross her? And you will. Then your "choice" boils down to a sick joke: die quick or rot slow.
Don't go expecting some shiny tale with genius robots or mustache-twirling villains. Nah. This is that other kind of story-where right and wrong drown in a moral swamp, and good and evil fuck without a condom at a rabid, sweat-soaked orgy.
You could walk away. Pretend this ain't your kinda mess. Hide behind your cozy little truths. But let's be real-you won't. 'Cause that itch in your gut? The one that wants to see how ugly it gets? That's already got its claws in you. Poison in your veins, sweet and lethal.
Good luck. You'll need it.