Word on the street... Yesterday in Hathian, rumors slither through the alleys like feral cats on the prowl. Word is, the bar crowd nearly erupted—not over spilled beer, but when one soul’s violent rage left an older man gasping for air, only for a vodka shower to douse the fire. Elsewhere, whispers tell of a bloodied loner fighting to reclaim his battered bus, hinting at sabotage and bruised pride tangled in the night’s chaos. And in the shadows of District 8 Park, folk mutter about a man cut down from a tree, scars old and new braided across his skin. Trouble, it seems, never sleeps in Crack Den.
