I’m Bertram Tung.
Not a warrior, or a revolutionary. Just a sneaky son of a ***** who’s seen the darkest corners of this world’s undead underbelly. How long have I been alive? Who knows. Long enough to know that time’s a joke. Decades, maybe a century. Time loses all meaning when you’ve been around this long. Eventually, you stop caring what happens to you. I’m not chasing some grand exit or a final death wish. Just bored. Bored of the same old games, the same dusty arcades and empty bars, and the nights that all bleed into each other.
So listen up, fledgling. This story starts about twenty years ago. Santa Monica. I was living in that mess. Mortals, freaks, failed actors pretending they had a shot. That place reeked of desperation and cheap weed. Felt like a Tarantino flick with no ending credits.
And yeah, I ****** Jeanette Voerman. That’s part of it too.
So let's get to it.
