The futuristic streets of Buenos Aires shimmer under neon signs, their forgotten dreams bleeding into rain-slicked asphalt, casting lurid purples and electric blues across the gutters. The city pulses with a fevered rhythm: the sharp honk of rusted taxis,the mournful wail of a distant train, the steady clatter of vendors' carts, and the soft, anxious murmur of a thousand voices merging into a tense hum.

Before the riots erupted, before politicians spewed venom and rage-scrawled protest signs filled the air, there was hope—Lyka Pharmaceuticals’ Synthetic Memory Drugs, a translucent elixir of curated nostalgia peddled as salvation in a city scarred by war’s nightmares. Led by the prodigy Susan Laske, Lyka sold SMDs as a miracle: erase pain, unlock genius, defy Alzheimer’s. By the mid-2000s, Buenos Aires devoured them like a cult drinking spiked wine.

But every highcrashes. Excessive use triggered memory bleeds, unraveling minds into mush, leaving addicts trapped in corrupted pasts. The first cracks split the barrios—knockoff SMDs, brewed in filthy bathtubs, exploded onto the streetslike shrapnel. Users spiraled into loops of decayed memories, their lives rotting like forgotten meat. What began as hope morphed into a national crisis.

 Buenos Aires, a city of extremes, bared its fangs. Congressman Mateo Acosta’s righteous face loomed large on every screen—cracked barrio TVs to Recoleta’s sleek displays—his presence inescapable. He didn’t just oppose SMDs; he weaponized fear, denouncing a city losing its soul to “mind thieves” and “dealers of fake reality.” Susan Laske, once a visionary, became a pariah, branded a merchant ofdeath. The media, hungry for blood, amplified his crusade, while whispers from the North American Federation stoked panic, warning of a neuro-tech plague seeping across borders.

In the city’s shadows, old-school crook Armani Garcia watched with wary eyes. His office, a fading mausoleum of power, reeked of cheap cigars, the scent clinging to wornleather and yellowed papers. Armani knew desire, mastered black markets, but this memory trade felt untamable—wild, slippery, a beast he’d avoid. His world of cash and contraband offered solid ground; this was chaos.

Yet younger blood saw differently. Leonardo Blanco, lurking in Armani’s crumbling empire, burned with hunger. Where others saw ruin, he spied opportunity—a new market risingfrom Lyka’s ashes, fueled by an insatiable craving to reshape the past and command the soul.

By early 2010, Buenos Aires teetered on a razor’s edge. Lyka bled out under laws and lies, but the thirst for SMDs grew feral, unstoppable. The abyss yawned wide, its hungerroaring to be sated.