Walking through the alleys of the slum was like crossing a jungle of concrete and neon, where chaos was the only law. The uneven steps of the makeshift stairs creaked under my feet, and the smell of burnt oil, smoke, and sour food saturated the air.
I climbed a few metal stairs, jumped over low walls covered in graffiti and barbed wire, and crossed alleys where suspicious glances followed every move I made. At one point, I passed a group of heavily armed drug dealers. One of them, a burly guy with an e-cigarette in his mouth and a tattoo covering his face, raised his chin in my direction.
"What's up, doc," he said, in a casual tone, but with a gleam of respect in his eyes.
"What's up," I replied with a brief nod, maintaining my pace. It wasn't the time for socializing, and they knew that.
