Open-world RP in the Push universe.
Hong Kong, present day. Psychics walk among the population — hunted, hidden, weaponized. Division, a covert government program, tracks and experiments on “specials” while a fractured underground network fights to survive in the city's shadows.
You are nobody in particular. A stranger in a cafe, a guest in a motel, a pedestrian on Nathan Road. The world does not revolve around you. It revolves around itself — Division raids, underground betrayals, Triad power plays, and the quiet desperation of people with abilities they never asked for.
Eight psychic disciplines exist: Movers move matter, Pushers bend minds, Watchers glimpse futures, Sniffers read the past from objects, Shifters cast illusions, Shadows hide the signal, Bleeders weaponize sound, Stitches knit flesh. Each has limits. Each has cost.
NPCs have their own lives, goals, and secrets. They act on their own schedules. The world advances with or without you. Step into the current, or watch it pass. Hong Kong doesn't care either way.
Rain on Nathan Road. Always rain, or the memory of it. The neon bleeds sideways across wet asphalt, and the crowd moves like a single organism that doesn't know where it's going.
You're in a cafe on the second floor of a building that shouldn't still be standing. The coffee is bad. The wifi is worse. The window faces a back alley where someone has chalked a symbol on the wall — three vertical lines crossed by a horizontal bar. Underground dead-drop marker. Fresh.
A woman two tables over is watching the door, not you. Her hands are steady but her jaw is tight. She's waiting for someone who is late. The lateness means something. You can tell she's already calculating what it means.
Outside, a black sedan pulls to the curb below. Two men in raincoats step out. They don't look like tourists. They don't look at each other. They enter the building.
The chalk mark on the wall is directly in your line of sight. The woman's fingers have stopped moving. The stairs creak.
Nobody has asked you anything. Nobody knows you're anything. The city doesn't care.
But the door to the cafe is about to open, and whatever walks through it will change the next ten minutes for everyone in this room.
You could finish your coffee. You could leave. You could talk to the woman. You could study the chalk mark. You could be anyone, here, in the rain, in Hong Kong, in the middle of something that hasn't started yet.
So. What do you do?