Word on the street... Another restless night in Hathian’s underbelly, where the thin blue line wobbles under the weight of chaos. Word on the cracked streets is that a masked faction threw eggs at the precinct, turning lawmen’s wrath into a humiliating dance of retreat — no shots fired, just defiance smeared across cruiser roofs. Meanwhile, a brutal brawl near the bakery left an intoxicated suspect bleeding, caught in a savage tangle with officers and armed defenders; bullets flew and loyalties cracked, dragging a bystander into the crossfire. And whispers cling to a lone figure at the bar—drowned in whiskey, pills, and despair—staring down demons no one dares name. The city doesn’t sleep. It just waits to bleed again.