A dank wind swept through the alley, carrying the stale aftertaste of ash and rotting sewage. Surya pulled his coat tighter, casting a glance at Angela, whose half-lidded eyes scanned the darkness with weary vigilance. They'd been navigating the lower stretches of the middle-lower boundary for hours now, doggedly following trails that whispered of a "dangerous Malara with a taste for toxins." Every so often, they'd pass a battered sign or glimpse a ragtag group scuttling behind boarded-up shacks, but no solid leads on Hayazaki. Just rumors that Slasher had more Malara under his thumb.
In the gloom, the old cobblestones underfoot felt half-sunk into mud. Each footstep sucked faintly as Surya moved, keeping his defibrillator gloves snug around his wrists. Across the way, Angela rubbed a patch of grime off her lens device. A swirl of half-burnt incense drifted from a collapsed shrine nearby, lending a bitter tang to the claustrophobic night air.
