Xavier rode slow through the lower wards, Ryn crouched tight behind him, hands gripping his jacket. The bike ate the dark — headlight cutting a pale path through the fog and dust — and the slums rolled by in a blur of corrugated metal, neon scraps, and laundry lines that looked like they'd been dragged through every color and curse the city had to offer.
They pulled off in a side street where the asphalt turned to mud and the air smelled like old food and burned wires. Xavier killed the engine. The silence after that was deadly— only the hiss of a distant exhaust and the low chatter of someone arguing over a crate of parts down the lane.
They walked. Shoes splashed through puddles, boots scuffed past broken toys and empty bottles. Ryn moved quiet, watching the alleys, the windows, the faces that blinked at them from behind curtains. The place was full of little lives trying not to be noticed.
