Word on the street... In Hathian’s bruised heart, the night sang of chaos and consequence. Word drifted through the alleys: a blood-soaked figure stormed a bar, razor claws flashing in a fit of fury, leaving even hardened cops shaken and stitched. Some swear she snarled secrets to the uniforms—something about “costumes” and old vendettas. Others whisper that a bar bouncer saw too much, and hush money may be changing hands. Meanwhile, low murmurs hint that digital secrets and faulty tech are changing hands on the sly, paranoia growing beneath neon glare. Razor-edged violence, hidden alliances, and ghostly data—last night, trust dissolved like Mississippi fog.
