Word on the street... Yesterday in the Crack Den, whispers curled through Hathian’s night air like cigarette smoke. Some claim the alley by the pawn shop ran red as knives and gunmetal flashed—officers and street soldiers tangled in a vicious ballet, with blood and bruises traded for fleeting power. Word is, even those who surrendered lost their iron—no one trusts the law to keep what’s confiscated. Meanwhile, the cells swelled, tension thick enough to choke a rat: bruised tempers, philosophical barbs, and uneasy truces behind cold steel bars. Yet the wildest rumor? Someone tried sacrificing a cop outside the station—maybe Hathian’s shadows are darker than anyone dares to believe.
