You think you know the streets? You don’t. Not like I do. Every alley, every crumbling corner, every flicker of neon light—it all has its own language, a pulse that’s felt more than seen. Out here, you have to feel everything. See, the streets don’t give second chances. They’re unpredictable, like a live wire, and if you’re not paying attention, they’ll chew you up and spit you out.

Tonight, it’s no different. I can feel the tension in the air, thick enough to choke on. My crew’s on edge, scattered around me in shadows and steel, each of us ready for whatever’s coming, but no one saying a word. Silence is our language out here, and trust me, it speaks louder than any battle cry. I catch the wide-eyed stare of a kid who hasn’t been in this long enough to know better. A kid who’s still deciding if this is courage or stupidity. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s both. We’ve all learned to read the streets in our own way—to pick up on the signals that could mean survival or slaughter.

Some people think this is just chaos. And maybe it is. But it’s our chaos. Our twisted ballet, with no rehearsals, no second takes. And when you’re in it, when the adrenaline surges and your instincts kick in, there’s this… strange beauty to it. The way the neon lights slice through the dark, the hum of danger vibrating in the air—it’s almost poetic. Almost.

But let’s not get too sentimental. It’s all still a mess of fists, blades, and gunfire. Out here, you don’t just fight enemies. You fight for every inch of space, every second of time, every damn breath you’re lucky enough to take. And in those moments, you either learn what you’re made of, or you’re done for.

I glance over at my crew—some of them grizzled veterans, others young and wide-eyed, still getting their sea legs in this storm. They all look to me, waiting for the smallest nod, the slightest sign of what’s next. Because out here, I’m not just a leader. I’m their shield, their sword, the one who’s seen the worst and survived to tell it. They follow me because I’m willing to step into the fire first. To make the hard calls, and to make sure they get out alive—even if I don’t.

I see them before they see us—shadows slipping between the neon like predators, their weapons catching the light for a split second before all hell breaks loose. I feel the ground shift, hear the first crack of violence splitting the air—the scrape of blade on armor, sharp and grating, cutting through the silence like a scream. And just like that, we’re in it, the streets exploding into motion. I don’t have time to think—just react, strike, defend. This isn’t a game. It’s life on the razor’s edge, and one slip could mean the end. But in the chaos, in the heat of it all, there’s this electric clarity. I know what I have to do, and I’ll do it without hesitation.

Because in the fray, there’s no room for weakness. Out here, survival isn’t a choice. It’s a damn battle cry.