The city's pulse grew heavier, a relentless heartbeat that pressed against Waxwell's ribs. Rain slicked streets reflected fractured neon, and every alley seemed alive, breathing, watching. Waxwell's steps were careful, boots silent on wet concrete, senses stretched to the edge. He could feel it—eyes tracking him, calculating his movements.
From the mist, figures emerged: two masked attackers, knives gleaming under the streetlights. Instinct took over. Waxwell dodged the first strike, twisting his body to avoid the second. Pain flared in his shoulder as a blade grazed him, but he retaliated with precision, a punch that sent one attacker sprawling into a puddle.
The fight was more than physical—it was a game of mind and reflexes. He moved like a shadow, anticipating each attack, countering before the threat fully materialized. Adrenaline surged, each heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the city.
Finally, both attackers lay unconscious. Waxwell's breath came in ragged gasps, rain mixing with sweat and blood on his skin. He knew these weren't random ambushers. The city had predators, organized and deliberate, and he had just become part of their game.
Every shadow now seemed to twitch, every neon sign a signal. Waxwell understood the unspoken truth: the streets themselves were alive, and surviving wasn't enough. He had to learn their rules, or be consumed.