By the time the crumbling city skyline cuts through the haze, it's dark enough that even the cockroaches are holding tiny flashlights.
We're exhausted. Like bone-deep, soul-heavy, exhausted and hungry, but we keep moving… one foot dragging after the other. The cracked asphalt under our boots smells like rain, dust, and old blood, and every gust of wind carries the sour stench of decay. It's the kind of place where even shadows look like they wanna mug you.
Vic's still trailing behind us, his hoodie pulled so low over his face he could pass for a depressed Jawa. Every so often, he stumbles, and Dom is right there to steady him. Dom's loyalty is sweet. It's also gonna get us all killed if Vic loses it again.
