I turned into another alley, this one wider and bordered by an abandoned production hall. The faded sign "HelioCorp" hung precariously above, a relic of some bygone era. The alley was cluttered with the detritus of urban decay: stacks of boxes, a worn-out sofa, and, oddly enough, a functioning TV plugged into some jury-rigged power source.
The television screen flickered with the image of a talk show, the host's voice echoing through the alley. "Welcome back to 'The Urban Pulse,'" he announced, "Today's urgent topic: the rising tensions between local gangs and corporate security forces. How will this affect the already fragile peace in our city? Stay tuned as we dive deep into this pressing issue."
Three men lounged on the sofa and makeshift chairs, engrossed in the show. They hadn't noticed me yet. Their attire was rugged, streetwise, and I could see hints of the Lone Star Gang's emblem on their jackets.
