Pixel tits and a story that thinks it's Raymond Chandler after three whiskeys. That's what hits first. Ryan, this private dick with a jawline sharp enough to cut the sexual tension, sits in his office that smells like digital rain and old coffee. The redhead walks in. Of course she's a redhead. Married, worried, wearing a skirt that the 3D artist spent way too many polygons on. You can almost hear the jazz saxophone wheezing in the background.

The game wants you to make choices. Tail her husband, dig through phone records, ask the wrong question and watch her cross those unrealistically smooth legs. The detective stuff is window dressing for what we're all here for. Click the right dialogue option and suddenly her blouse is unbuttoning itself like magic. The sex scenes are stiff in that particular way where bodies clip through each other if you look too close. One moment she's riding Ryan on his office desk, the next her elbow is phasing through a lamp and I'm laughing instead of jerking off. The moaning sounds like someone recorded it in a bathroom stall. Still works though. Somehow.

The plot tries to be clever. Elevate his business, she says. Big case. But the writing trips over its own dick every time it gets going. A typo here, a line that makes zero sense there. Why does the coffee cup float during one interrogation scene? Never explained. The redhead's hair clips through her shoulders constantly. Drives me nuts. But then she leans forward during a stakeout and the camera gets real friendly with her cleavage and I forget what I was complaining about. The game knows what it is. Cheap thrills wrapped in a trenchcoat. Dare to play it with one hand on the mouse and the other... well. You know.