They moved slow once the houses turned rough and the streetlights got fewer. The air changed in a way that didn't need words — heavier, thicker, like the city was holding its breath. Not storm weather, just the kind of stillness that comes before trouble walks out of a doorway and asks your name.
The sidewalks were cracked; weeds pushed through the concrete like stubborn little fingers. Buildings leaned closer, windows barred, paint peeling in long strips like old skin. Graffiti covered the walls in layers — angry tags, names of crews, curses, half-faded symbols no one cared enough to clean.
The shadows here felt older than the streetlamps. They clung to corners like they'd been left behind by every person who'd ever come through scared.
