Word on the street... Another day bleeds out in Hathian, and the city’s veins pulse beneath grit and neon. Word drifts from the Gein Burger—some say a cop and a regular brushed shoulders, neither quite recognizing the old blood between them. Meanwhile, a fresh-faced officer was seen palming a derringer behind the counter, eyes darting as if haunted by more than paperwork. The grimy diner’s regulars traded jabs about fists versus knives, masking bruises and old crimes behind smirks. And rumor has it someone’s jeep changed color overnight—maybe a prank, or maybe a warning. In Hathian, trust is a currency, and today’s debts linger in the shadows.
