This was Badland—where the streets rewarded predators and swallowed the weak.
Rain hammered the road as Dami sprinted through Surulere, breath burning his lungs. Neon lights flickered overhead, reflecting off wet asphalt like warning signs. His instincts screamed trouble, but instinct had never failed him before.
His phone vibrated.
PEDESTRIAN: Do not stop running.
That was when he knew the job was wrong.
He reached the warehouse gate just as it creaked open. A man he couldn't see shoved a black backpack into his chest.
"No questions," the man hissed. "If they catch you, you're dead."
"Who are they?" Dami asked.
The gate slammed shut.
Sirens wailed.
Not police sirens—too slow, too controlled.
Engines roared. Doors flew open. Men with guns flooded the street.
Hunters.
Bullets ripped through the night.
Dami ran.
Behind him, Badland woke up hungry.