Underneath the cracked concrete of a forgotten highway bridge, where the lost and desperate scrape for any kind of work, comes a motherfucker named Hunter. He rolls up with cash in his pocket, a glint in his eye, and a smile that promises both salvation and sin. This ain’t no ordinary job offer; this is a goddamn hunt. He’s looking for something more than just cheap labor; he’s sniffing out opportunity, the kind that makes your skin crawl and your blood boil.
There’s this young, dumb couple, full of piss and vinegar, thinking they’ve found their lucky break. The boyfriend, all muscle and no brains, swings a hammer, dreaming of a better life. But just a few feet away, his girl is learning a lesson in hard knocks. Hunter’s got a proposition for her, something he calls “delicate work.” It’s the kind of work that makes you question your morals, the kind that leaves you stained and dirty. She calls it need, the kind that gnaws at your insides and leaves you no choice. Hunter calls it chance, a roll of the dice in a game where the stakes are your soul.
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