Word on the street... In Hathian’s choking haze, whispers coil down cracked alleys and crumbling curbs. They say the carnival ran red last night—steel flashed, voices rose, and bodies dropped beneath flickering neon. Some mutter that a drunken troublemaker took a swing at the badge and lived to regret it, while others swear a standoff between rival crews nearly boiled over, only diffused by the threat of drawn steel and sirens. Paramedics hustled bleeding souls to the hospital, but ask around and the real talk is about alliances unraveling—frayed patience, bruised egos, and lines crossed that won’t be easily forgiven. In Hathian, every secret’s just waiting to bleed.
