Waxwell's footsteps echoed through the narrow alleys, bouncing off graffiti-stained walls. The city smelled of burnt oil, rotting trash, and neon—an intoxicating cocktail for those who thrived on survival. The card still burned a weight in his pocket, a challenge he couldn't ignore.
He paused at the edge of a crowded street, sensing the tension in the air. Three figures approached, movement fluid, eyes sharp. Gangs didn't often talk. They either fought, or they disappeared.
"You're the kid from the alley," one said, voice low and deliberate. "Skill like that doesn't go unnoticed."
Waxwell's fists clenched. "I don't need your approval."
"Then maybe you need our protection," the man replied, a smirk in the shadows. "The city doesn't forgive weakness. Pick your allies carefully… or you'll be someone's lesson."
It was a gamble. Aligning with the wrong faction could cost him his life, but going alone meant fighting against countless invisible enemies. Waxwell weighed the words, reading their intent, measuring the risk.
One wrong step, and the alley could become his grave. But he stepped forward anyway. Trust was a currency he couldn't afford freely, yet tonight, he accepted the tentative hand.
The city whispered behind him, neon reflecting off the puddles, watching him choose his path.