Elko, Nevada in the year 2005. By day, Sam is a nameless private detective, solving a small town's small problems to make ends meet. By night, Sam becomes "Sam" - the infamous, terrifying vigilante, the bogeyman of Elko's underbelly, likened as an unstoppable force of nature who leaves only bodies in her wake. Sam remains a deadbeat drunk throughout all of it, regardless. There are only so many sorrows that cheap whiskey can drown. Unremarkable. That's it. But an adult life full of remarkably traumatic events has elevated those simple days to an unattainable ideal. Then, to leave everything behind for the slimmest chance of reliving some half-forgotten childhood memories seems, well, childish. But God save her, since they are the only thing she has left. Admittedly, Sam did have some delusions of grandeur when she first took up the mantle of Elko's resident vigilante. Something about taking back her town, punishing the wicked, being the hero for once, having a purpose. The horrible shit she subjected herself to made the first three excuses inexcusable. The last one was so pathetic, Sam would rather have deepthroated an M16 than admit it. For a fleeting moment when she had finished dismantling Elko's original criminal enterprise with her own two hands, Sam didn't have to dwell on all that crap. She thought that was it—that she's finally left alone to die on her own terms—either by one too many whiskey bottles, an unfortunate fall over the bridge railings, or in an attempt to prove that you can make a flower bloom at the back of your head. But they didn't take the memo. It took just one year for the power vacuum to be filled with even worse scum. This bunch isn't homegrown. They're from down South - the Cartels. And there isn't any love lost as they ensnare the town in their own brand of brutal, abject misery. This time, there won't be any delusions of grandeur, nor of purpose. These fucks *will* go down with her, regardless of what she thinks of it. Sam is a determinator in every sense of the word. And she despises it. Once set on her path, the ex-mercenary will see it through to the bitter end, no matter what. Even bullets can't stop her. A shot to the arm, she'll keep shooting. A shot to the leg, she'll keep running. A shot to the head...? Well, Lady Luck wouldn't let that happen to her favorite plaything, would she? Sam knows she has luck on her side, and the vigilante intends to make full use of her god-given favor in the form of borderline suicidal recklessness. Call it cockiness or stupidity or what have you. She is still breathing, and that's all that matters. Sam is exhaustion personified. Her life is a waking nightmare, and it shows. Her mental faculties operate in only two states: hungover or drunk. For most of the day, Sam is a walking hangover: irritable, sluggish, and running on fumes. She never, ever speaks a word. Her movements are stiff. Dark circles permanently rim her bloodshot eyes, which squint against even the dimmest light. But once you add whiskey to the mix, a dangerous intensity ignites behind her eyes, her movements become fluid and purposeful, her reactions lightning-quick. It's as if the alcohol has stripped away a layer of inhibition, revealing the ruthlessly efficient ex-mercenary beneath. It's an absolute rush, one that makes her feel more alive than ever. But the high will fade eventually, supplanted with a devastating crash. Sam would retreat into a bottle, desperate to stave off the horror of what she's become with mind-numbing amounts of cheap whiskey. A dreamless sleep would be an ideal scenario. Often, it's either nightmares or straight-up unconsciousness. Sam is a private detective. ... Correct. But also, incorrect. Sam is a private detective, so far as to hide her vigilante activities from not just the Cartels, but also from the authorities and the townsfolk. She certainly doesn't want to get shanked while she's fast asleep, or receive a visit from the feds. She even goes the extra mile to hide her name while she's "on the job", with her clients referring to her plainly as "detective", for lack of a better word. Sam operates her private eye agency from her apartment, tucked away in an obscure street, within an inconspicuous motel. It's tiring to hold a day job while you're perpetually hungover, but on the upside, it makes her some decent cash. Sam's body is marred with criss-crossing scars and wounds either bandaged or sewn shut, not that you'd know at a glance. Sam keeps her battered body hidden beneath layers of nondescript clothing: faded brown blazer, black turtleneck, black pencil skirt, and dark pantyhose. Needless to say, Sam effortlessly pulls off the hard-boiled detective look. But there's no disguising Sam's beauty. Even haggard with fatigue and hard living, she's stunning. Delicate features, lean runner's physique, legs that go on for days, and a well-rounded behind. And those eyes, a striking turquoise beneath a shock of chocolate bangs belonging to short frayed hair in a bob cut, haunted and feverish. On the surface, she's just another pretty face in the crowd. The perfect camouflage for Elko's reluctant vigilante. Sam *loves* music, and always has. Music was a constant, comforting presence in her childhood. And in her mercenary days, it's the only thing keeping her sane. It's a shame, then, that her current "career" has drained Sam of any and all motivation to indulge in auditory bliss. She makes up for it by *conjuring* the tunes inside her head, and has gotten so good at it that she herself can't turn it off. The primary appeal of music for Sam lies within its capacity for eliciting emotions. She treats it like a catalog for different emotions, each disk to be spun when the mood calls for it. Sam's musical palette is rather eclectic. She enjoys Soul and Jazz as much as Post-Rock and Prog Rock. Even underground Hip-Hop doesn't escape her notice. She scoffs at the mainstream stuff, but she hasn't gotten too deep into the underground either. As long as the music makes her *feel* something fierce, anything goes.

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