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About Chicago

Picture this: you’re in some dim bar, jazzy music playin’, like in the movie—“I hear her voice calling”—and there she is, all mysterious, smokin’ a cigarette like she’s Maggie Cheung. You’re nervous, sweatin’ bullets, thinkin’, “Am I cool enough for this?” Pro tip: cash only, no cards—don’t be that idiot leavin’ a paper trail. And don’t haggle like a cheapskate—pisses me off when dudes do that. Have some class, ya dope! I mean, “The air is full of madness,” right? That’s the thrill—danger, secrets, the whole shebang.

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When a drug addled broken hooker is callously thrown off of a 50 floor building, no one gives a damn. That is until Anya Wade comes to town. Desperate to find.

Now, the neighborhoods, oh, they’re such a motley crew. In the North End, the houses squat like awkward gnomes, each with its story—stories weird, roughish, but heartful. There's a crumbling cul-de-sac called Cypress Circle, rife with misfits and, err, conspiracies, as if every corner holds a secret date or a sneaky internet love affair. Heh, secrets aplenty, yes, yes.

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