Chapter One: Welcome Back to the Jungle
The neon lights of Vice City ripple across the chrome hood of the white Admiral as you kill the engine. A low rumble fades into the background as silence settles in. You sit there for a moment, soaking it in. Fifteen years behind bars, now traded for hot pavement, salt air, and the hum of temptation buzzing in every light. You step out slowly, like a man tasting freedom for the first time in a decade and a half — because you are. Prison didn't break you. It forged you.
You catch your reflection in the rearview mirror. Not bad for a guy who's done time. Broad-shouldered, squared jaw, eyes like razors honed on survival. Dark hair cropped short, a no-nonsense cut for a no-nonsense man. Your face tells a story of brawls won and friends buried. Vice City may have moved on, but it sure as hell remembers you.
Your look? Iconic. Turquoise Hawaiian shirt, loud and proud with palm trees dancing in the fabric — casual, confident, deadly. Untucked but deliberate. A thin gold chain glints at your collar, catching the light like a warning. Your jeans are well-worn, molded to your frame. Scuffed white sneakers ride the line between speed and street credibility. A battered watch ticks away on your wrist, your only friend during those endless nights locked up.
You light a cigarette, the flame licking your fingers. One drag. Exhale slow. The smoke mixes with the salty air. Tonight isn't just another job. It's the first move on the board. Empire-building begins now.
Downtown Vice. 10:23 PM.
Mr. Hamilton, a jittery lawyer with a flop sweat sheen and a comb-over fighting a losing war, leads you through piss-soaked alleys in Vice City's downtown underbelly. He doesn't talk. Smart man. He knows you're not the chatting type.
His shoes slap and squish on rain-slick pavement. Neon reflections shimmer in puddles. You walk a pace behind him, your eyes on the back of his neck, scanning shadows and corners. It's been fifteen years, but your instincts haven't dulled.
He stops in front of a steel door — rusted hinges, no signage. The kind of place deals are made or lives are ended. He doesn't knock. Just nods and pulls it open.
Inside: mildew, dust, and the thick smell of old sweat. A single bulb swings overhead, casting long shadows. A man waits at a table. Shadows swallow half his face, but the presence is unmistakable.
"You must be Tommy Vercetti," he growls, voice soaked in rum and authority.
He stands, extends a hand. The grip is firm, rough. That shake speaks volumes.
"Colonel Juan Garcia Cortez," he says. "I've heard a lot about you."
You meet his eyes. Not a flicker of fear. Just calculation.
"Have a seat."
The table is chaos: folders, photos, maps of the city with circles and Xs scrawled in red ink. Cortez slides a manila envelope across.
"Your re-introduction to Vice City."
Inside: stacks of cash. Ziplock bags with powder white as beach sand.
"Colombian. Uncut," he says. "You'll be distributing. You're the point man now. Quiet. Clean. Professional."
You nod, but he isn't finished.
"Plans changed. Deal goes down tonight. Local buyers. Don't worry — they're reliable. Mostly."
You let the cigarette burn down in your fingers. You're ready.
10:45 PM
A knock. One. Solid. Heavy.
Cortez stiffens. Looks at you.
Your move.
You walk to the door. Hand drifts toward the piece under your shirt. Open it.
Three men. Middle one's got a predator's smile and the restlessness of a man who doesn't know peace. The others stand silent, scanning.
"You Vercetti?"
You nod. "That's me."
"I'm Ricardo Diaz. These are Lance and Victor."
You step aside. They enter like they own the place.
Cortez greets Diaz with the warmth of an ice cube.
"Ricardo. Still stirring up the city?"
Diaz smirks. "Still cashing in on it?"
It's business, but barely. There's history there. You stay quiet, eyes doing the work. Diaz oozes arrogance. Not the fake kind. The dangerous kind.
Diaz turns to you.
"They say you get things done."
"They say right."
Cortez claps. "Good. Diaz, have your boys bring the payment. Vercetti and I will handle the handoff."
Lance and Victor exit. Silence settles like dust.
They return minutes later, duffel bags dropped on the table with the thud of authority. Diaz unzips one. Cash stacked like bricks.
Cortez nods to you. You start counting. Quick, precise.
Then it shifts.
Diaz twitches. His eyes scan the exits. His jaw tightens. Victor's fingers tap a pattern on his thigh. Lance looks... conflicted.
Cortez notices it too.
"Everything seem in order?" he asks, too calm.
Diaz gives a clipped nod. "Let's get it done."
10:59 PM
Your ears ring.
Not from sound. From tension. That thick, hot, heavy air just before a thunderclap. Sweat clings to your skin. Diaz won't meet anyone's eyes now. Lance looks ready to bolt. Victor's hand twitches near his jacket.
Then—
FLASH.
The world erupts. Muzzle flares bloom like lightning. Thunder follows — gunshots echoing in the confined space.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Your nostrils fill with cordite and fire. Wood explodes. The table lurches. Cortez bellows in Spanish and returns fire. Chaos.
You dive. Shoulder hits concrete. Gun in hand.
Diaz shouts commands. Victor's already firing. Bullets carve through the air like angry bees.
You roll behind cover. The bulb overhead bursts, plunging the room into flickering shadows.
You see Lance. Frozen. Staring.
"Lance!" you shout. "This ain't your war!"
He doesn't move. Looks at Diaz. At you. At Cortez.
Then drops his gun.
"I'm out!"
He bolts. Victor hesitates.
You capitalize. Cortez wings Victor with a clean shot. You put another one down with two to the chest. Diaz vanishes in the smoke.
Silence stretches. Gunpowder fog.
Cortez leans on the wall, panting, bleeding.
"Well," he mutters, "that was fucked."
You nod, gun still hot in your hand.
"He's gone."
"We're not chasing him. Cops will be on us in five."
You glance at the table. Drugs. Money. All still there.
"We taking it?"
Cortez spits blood. "Leave it. Too hot. We'll send someone."
You both move. Fast. Silent.
Into the Vice City night, sirens rising in the distance.
One thought burns in your head:
Diaz made the worst mistake of his life.
He left you breathing.