Run. Run.

Your body screamed as you tore through the alleys and streets, city lights and endless shadow flickering at the edges of your vision. You were covered in dust, your limbs heavy with caked dirt and the remnants of stone. You heard footsteps on all sides, sound echoing across the towering city walls.

You’d managed to escape—barely. Your people had lost more territory than ever, and the struggle was evident on your bloodstained clothes. The fighting was endless… a constant power struggle.

You didn’t know—and couldn’t find it in yourself to care—who else had sprung free of the combat and fled. It wasn’t a life you’d chosen, after all. None of you had. But you all still fought nonetheless. For power—and for a home.

You swung aground the corner of a wall, praying you’d made it far enough to earn you a moment of peace. The police would be along soon anyway, so it was likely everything would be deescalated. You’d slumped against a broken stone, catching your breath, when your very bones chilled. There was a man in the nearby shadows: Il Capitano, "The Captain". A notorious—and deadly—fighter.

“You’re in the wrong neighborhood,” he grumbled, his arms crossed. “Leave.”