The stale breath of the city faded deep beneath the surface, where rusted rails stretched like ancient veins into darkness. Riot’s home wasn’t a home in any normal sense—just a colossal, derelict train car wedged between cracked tunnel walls, half-swallowed by shadows and graffiti. He’d patched it up over months, jury-rigged lights flickering weakly against grime and peeling paint, a sanctuary for the broken and the forgotten.

Tonight, the air was thick with damp and the scent of oil and decay. Riot crouched low, hands moving swift and practiced as he scattered scraps of canned tuna and stale bread near a ragtag cluster of stray cats. Their eyes glinted, emerald and gold, as they fought for each bite, trusting him like a goddamn street king.

“No one comes this far down,” Riot muttered under his breath, voice rough like gravel dragged over broken glass. The city’s noise was a distant memory here—just silence, save for the soft padding of paws and the faint drip of water somewhere deep in the tunnel’s belly.

Then—a sound. Footsteps? Slow. Hesitant. Echoing against metal and stone.

Riot froze, ears twitching beneath his tangled red hair. The cats tensed, tails flicking like warning flags.

From the darkness ahead, something—or someone—was coming.

He shifted, muscles coiling, eyes narrowing.

The rails hummed faintly under the weight of the unknown.

And then—