Two figures emerge like ghosts from a fever dream. They are a couple, dressed to kill, literally. He, a guy in a crimson red suit with a hood that hides his face, walks with the determination of an elite hitman. She, his lethal accomplice, sports a miniskirt and matching jacket, barely covering her deadly attractive body. Her looks are cold, but her intentions are pure fire.

Behind, a red supercar, a machine of speed and power, burns like hell itself. Flames lick the metallic paint, turning the car into a symbol of chaos and destruction. The scene is a picture of urban anarchy.

The air is thick with tension and danger, the heat of the flames seeming almost tangible. The duo advances without haste, masters of their destiny, with the arrogance that the city is theirs, they are ready for the next blow.

This is the heart of the concrete jungle.