“Every sound is an echo of our violent past, every touch a reminder of explicit desires best left buried. Walking these blasted streets - scarred, smoke‑veiled, littered with the shards of promises - we navigate a graveyard of ghosts. They whisper their secrets in alleyway breezes, taunt us with memories we can neither forget nor outrun, and each new breath tastes like regret ground into powder.”
-
Ash drifts in lazy spirals through a half‑collapsed corridor, turning the ruined space into a bleak snow globe. My boots grind across a mosaic of shattered glass, shell casings, and splinters from crates blasted apart in last night’s ambush. Every step sends a brittle c***k echoing up the charred rafters, and every brittle c***k revives some brutal tableau: Damien’s men storming in with muzzle
