Word on the street... In the city’s underbelly, whispers snake through Hathian like cigarette smoke. Folks are still reeling from the parade of chaos beneath the bridge, where a battered soul in a cow costume sprawled out, bloodied and humiliated, set the tone for the night—some say it wasn’t just a mugging, but a warning from a gang itching to claim their turf. Others mumble about a patrol’s hesitance to wade in, proof that the blue shields are either scared—or paid. Meanwhile, side-eyes flick toward the precinct, where paperwork piles and laughter echo, but no one seems eager to mention the bloody costume bag stashed in evidence. Trust is thin as cheap bourbon.
