Once more, he was pinned down in that place. The Eclipse.

Held down, his eye gouged by a demon's claw, helpless as his beloved was violated before his eyes—just after he'd lost everyone he cared about.

The only light in that darkness was Griffith's—no, Femto's—piercing gaze as he took it all from Guts in the name of ambition.

And the only sound echoing in his mind was the Skull Knight's words:

"So struggle, eternal struggler... Struggle, and struggle, and live on…"

"Struggle..." The word boomed in his skull as he watched Casca's tears slide down her cheek.

"Struggle…!!" The voice roared again as her mind slipped away—her empty gaze locking with his one last time, as tears of blood streamed from his own eye, pierced by the demon's claw.

"Struggle..."

The haunting command faded into the background, overtaken by the heavy rain. Water struck down around him, filling his ears with the sounds of distant chatter and the endless hum of the concrete jungle. The neon glow cut through the fog, painting the wet streets with a ghostly, artificial light that bounced back to him from the ground. Sitting under the umbrella of a small breakfast stall near the station, Guts leaned against the counter, wrapped in his leather jacket and a worn sweater, clutching a steaming paper cup of coffee to keep his hands warm.

Two teens crossed his path, talking loudly over the rain.

"Hey, you heard?! HawkEye 4.0 just came out," one of them said, grinning. "Shit's fuckin' awesome. My pops installed it yesterday. He can zoom in two kilometers and see how your skin connects up close. Crazy stuff."

They glanced over at Guts, noticing his single shut eye.

"Man, thank God I'm not poor," one of them muttered with a smirk.

"Yeah, imagine being stuck with crap like that…" Their voices faded into the rain as they moved on, leaving Guts to sigh, leaning against the stall counter.

"Ah, take it easy, young man!" The stall owner patted Guts on the shoulder. "Some of these kids were born with money, so they never learned any manners in this city."

Guts lifted his gaze to meet the stall owner's, a trace of amusement in his tired eye. "You say that like I don't deal with pricks like that every day."

The owner chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. "True enough! Guess I was worried for nothing." He gave Guts a reassuring smile before heading back into the stall to prepare more orders.

Guts's eye drifted back to the bustling street, watching the people pass by: the suits yammering on phones, a mother dragging along her noisy kid whining about birthday presents, the overworked salaryman shuffling home from his 9-to-5. He took another sip from his cup, letting the bitter warmth spread through him.

'Reeks of shit,' as always, he thought, pausing to take in the stale city air. His half-lidded gaze scanned the crowd.

The coffee was bitter, but it was better than the scent of the street—the stench of people these days.

A child threw a fit for getting four presents instead of five, and the parent would rush to buy six more, just to shut them up. A salaryman would grumble about working twenty minutes overtime, then let that bitterness fester into a grudge against the world for the next week, maybe longer.

A woman would gripe about her husband getting a bit too soft, despite him putting food on the table and paying the bills—then she'd go looking for a young stud to make her feel alive again. Meanwhile, a man would dream of chasing after some busty fling, hoping to relive his early twenties, while his own woman stayed home, loyal and devoted.

And then there were the youth, hating everyone and everything around them from the comfort of a warm bed under a solid roof.

Guts knew where he fit in. He was an old-fashioned man, but he couldn't deny he was one of them—the kind who hated the world and everyone in it. The difference was, he remembered when things were different.

Back in his day, a kid didn't get presents on their birthday, let alone a whole pile. And if they whined about it, they'd get a slap instead. A woman stayed by her husband's side, even if he was dull and poor, while a man cherished his wife, even if she was no longer young or beautiful.

People used to need each other to survive. Now, they just took each other for granted.

As he watched the crowd, Guts couldn't help but wonder if the struggle to survive had once given people purpose. And now, in this age of comfort, that struggle was lost—leaving him to ask himself one question.

Are we defined by how we struggle? Or does that struggle keep us from discovering who we are at heart?

The question lingered as he watched a woman in a dark coat, lacking an umbrella, make her way through the drizzle.

Over the years, Guts had honed his perception—his ability to read people.

He looked the woman over, head to toe. Her clothes were rushed, unkempt. Her steps were short but thunderous, fists clenched tight. He didn't need to see her face to know it was twisted in a pout, tense with bottled rage—not that he could make it out clearly through the fog and rain. But the signs were all there. This was someone struggling to keep a lid on her misery.

Most likely, she'd been chewed out by someone with power over her—someone she couldn't lash out against. A boss? A lover with too much control? Could be either. But judging by her worn leather handbag and the way she dressed with little care for appearances, he figured it was probably the former. Someone who had to swallow her anger to keep her job, trapped by the weight of it, her body like a kettle about to burst.

But that was... normal.

The kid throwing a tantrum over presents. The unfaithful husband and the unsatisfied wife. People blaming their jobs, their lives, their partners for everything wrong. These were the kind of things that happened on a good day here in the Golden City of Hawkeye. Maybe even an excellent day. Hell, perfect might be closer.

The only problem...

...is that there aren't any perfect days in this city.

There's always a darker story lurking just beneath the surface.

Like that woman, who doesn't know she's being followed by six guys who reek of trouble.

Guts took another sip, his gaze narrowing as he noticed six men in hoodies, trailing the woman from a careful distance, slipping through the fog and rain. Looked like they'd picked tonight's storm as their cover.

He set his half-finished coffee on the counter, nodding to the stall owner. "Thanks," he muttered.

"Oh no, thank you…" the owner began, but Guts was already walking away, disappearing into the downpour, his rugged, gray hoodie pulled low.

The owner watched him fade into the fog, swallowed up by the neon glow of the streetlights.

"…for keeping us safe," he murmured, his words lost to the rain.

"…Officer."

Meanwhile...

"Stupid, dumb, fat, lazy, arrogant, bald, baby-faced, full-of-shit excuse of a man! I hate him, I hate him, I haaaaaaaaate him!" She fumed, punctuating each word with angry stomps on the wet pavement. She took a sharp corner, drifting farther and farther from the safety of the neon-lit streets as she made her way toward home, buried deep in the concrete maze.

This was a woman who knew the risks of living in a place like this. She was well aware of the dangers lurking in the city shadows. But right now, her rage outweighed her caution; she wanted the world to hear her. She stomped, she yelled, she justified herself over and over, her anger burning so hot it felt like she could vaporize the rain that splashed against her umbrella.

"Cutting my pay for dozing in the office for two hours after a double shift to clean up his mess? Oh, excuse me! Because, apparently, it's my job, even when he steps in and screws it all up!" She ranted into the downpour, her words masked by the roar of the rain, unafraid that anyone might hear her outburst.

"If it weren't for me, that place would fall apart. The second I find a new job, I'm gone!"

But as she slipped into the dark alley leading to her worn-out apartment building, her fury wasn't as private as she thought.

A low whistle sliced through the sound of the rain. "Trouble with the boss, sweetheart?" sneered a voice, followed by a chorus of wicked laughter.

She froze, spinning around, her eyes scanning the murky alley as six figures emerged from the shadows, slowly surrounding her.

Taking a shaky breath, she forced herself to stay calm. "Look… I really don't have time for this. If you were eavesdropping, then you know I just want to get some sleep."

'Damn it… Had to happen eventually, in a place like this,' she thought, almost scolding herself for letting her guard down, for taking her "peace" for granted.

The group exchanged glances, lips pursed, their amusement tinged with irritation. Her sharp, casual defiance was a thorn in their pride—this girl had guts... And they hated it, since it challenged what little self-worth these scum have.

"Eavesdropping? Man, this bitch has some nerve… We just wanted to hang out, and she throws accusations at us," one sneered, as her hand crept discreetly into her bag.

"Yeah… guess we need to teach her a lesson," another chimed in, leering as his tongue traced his upper lip. They closed in tighter, their circle drawing her in like prey.

She glanced around, heart pounding as the gravity of her situation sank in. "You want money...? I have some. Just take it and leave me alone," she offered, keeping her hand hidden in her bag.

'Just give them what they want. Life's more important than playing hero,' she reminded herself, 'Like Ma always said, money can always be printed, not lives.' But her hand trembled as it found her wallet, frustration mingling with fear as she bit her lip;

'…Though if they take everything, I'm screwed.'

That overtime wasn't for show. People worked extra shifts because they needed to in this city.

Those who claimed they did it out of love for the job—hell, even the ones hustling for extra cash when they already had enough? In this city, they had a special name.

They were called liars.

Or corporate dogs—shameless manipulators who lured people in, made them feel like part of a "family," only to bury them deeper in debt with some pyramid scheme.

She knew exactly which group she belonged to. She needed the money, plain and simple. Giving these scum what little she had was like cutting off her own life support.

Her hand shifted in her bag, sliding off her wallet and landing on her pepper spray instead.

The group's ominous giggles echoed around her. "Oh, you're gonna give us something alright…" one sneered, their laughter growing darker, closing in.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, the reality of it all hitting her like a punch. But before she could even process it, a hand gripped her waist from behind.

Instinct kicked in. She whipped out the pepper spray, unleashing it in the face of the bastard who dared to touch her.

"Stay the FUCK back!" she shouted, her voice sharp with defiance. The man staggered back, clutching his face, howling in agony as he fumbled to wipe the burning spray from his eyes.

"Ahhh!! Fuck!!! This bitch sprayed me…!" He staggered back, gasping, clutching his face as he stumbled away from her, blinded and retreating.

She held the pepper spray can aloft like a ward against evil, her voice hard with fury. "Stay back! You want your faces melted off? Take one more step, and I'll keep spraying until your eyes pop out!" Her gaze flicked wildly between them, the walls of the dark alley seeming to close in, trapping her.

'Like hell I'm letting these assholes take my last credit!!' Her teeth ground together as her grip on the can tightened. I'll gut myself before I let that happen.

'LIVES ARE MORE IMPORTANT!? MORE THAN MONEY!? YEAH, MA, TELL ME THAT SWEET LIE AGAIN!! TELL ME HOW TRUE THAT IS! ' Her thoughts spiraled, fueled by the bitterness of an old memory.

===========

"I'm sorry, miss. Her insurance only covered this month… We have to cut her life support now."

"FUCK THAT!! Just hold on a little longer—three months, even one more month, and she'll make it! It's just the flu, for God's sake! Her body just needs more time. She'll pull through!" she had begged, clutching the clerk's shoulders, desperation clawing its way up her throat.

"Please…! Please…" Her hand shook as she pulled out crumpled bills from her purse, a pitiful handful of credits. "Just another week… just until she gets a little better… please… You know it too...! She'll get better if you keep it on for just a little longer...!" Her voice broke as she pressed the bills forward, her tears soaking the paper.

The clerk's face remained blank, unmoved. "I'm sorry, miss. It's company policy…" he said flatly, as they escorted her from the room. She sat outside, listening as her mother's heart monitor flatlined—a relentless, final note.

"Excuse me, miss?" Another voice spoke beside her, barely a moment after her mother's passing.

She looked up, her eyes empty, glazed with tears.

"Would you be interested in our funeral services? We offer a great discount—"

"I'm sorry," she murmured, staring back down.

"I can't pay you."

===========

The memory scorched through her mind, pulled to the surface by the hollow laughter of the thugs around her. Their mocking echoed off the wet alley walls, trapping her in a cocoon of despair. Her fingers tightened around the can, knuckles white with strain.

'Go on, Ma… Tell me more lies. Tell me someone in this godforsaken world would step in to help me without asking for money first…!' She thought bitterly, clenching her jaw, every muscle tensed and ready.

But in a flash, one of them struck her hand, sending the pepper spray clattering to the ground. They seized the chance, shoving her against the wall, hands clawing at her, tearing her clothes.

"S-STOP…! Please…" she cried, shivering as the rain-soaked air hit her exposed skin while they tore at her leggings.

'Of course…' her heart hammered in her chest. 'No one's coming.' She looked down the length of the alley, her last hope fading as she took in the empty, desolate space beyond.

The man she'd sprayed approached, eyes bloodshot, face twisted in a menacing snarl. His breath came in harsh gasps as he glared at her, vengeance simmering beneath his gaze.

"You've… just made this worse for yourself!" he hissed, his voice thick with spite.

Her heart raced. "N-no…" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of his belt unbuckling, the leather sliding through the loops, surrounded by the low, sinister laughter of the others.

Desperation clawed at her insides, her eyes darting toward the faint glow at the alley's entrance—a sliver of hope, just out of reach.

'No one's coming…'

'But… still… Please, Ma…'

'I want to believe you. Even if it's all a Lie, I want to believe it exists, even for a second...'

'Please… someone…'

'help me…' Her silent plea escaped in a single tear trailing down her cheek, bracing herself against the darkness that threatened to swallow her whole.

"Oi." A deep voice cut through. A dark figure standing at the edge of the alleyway, his figure so large; it blocked the light from the outside.