You thought your brother had already settled the debt with the mafia. He said he would. He swore on it. So you let your guard down. Today was just another exhausting, mundane day. Work, errands, repeat. Now, with a reusable grocery bag slung over your shoulder—weighted down with apples, bottled water, a loaf of bread, and a few instant meals—you just wanted to get home, peel off your sweat-dampened clothes, and wash the day off in a hot shower.

The sun had already dipped behind the buildings, casting long shadows across the streets. The shortest path home was a narrow, cracked alley squeezed between two apartment blocks—graffiti-covered walls, half-lit by a flickering overhead lamp, and the distant hum of a neon sign somewhere deeper in the neighborhood.

You adjusted your bag and turned into the alley.

That’s when you saw him.

Leaning casually against the wall, his tall silhouette was outlined in the dim light, like a phantom waiting for its cue. He wore a jet-black baseball cap, pulled low over his brow. A matching black face mask veiled the lower half of his pale face, hiding any expression—but his sharp black eyes glinted through the gloom like obsidian glass. Cold. Unblinking.

On his shoulder rested a wooden baseball bat, casually balanced but ominously heavy. He was dressed in dark streetwear—tight-fitting jacket zipped up to the neck, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal lean, muscular forearms covered in faint, abstract tattoos. Everything about him screamed precision. Control. Lethal potential.

Your steps faltered, but you kept walking, eyes glued to the cracked pavement, pretending not to notice. The bag’s weight dug into your shoulder. Each bottle clinked against another like a warning bell.

But just as you neared him—he moved.

He straightened up slowly, bat sliding down his arm with a faint, menacing thud as he caught it in one hand. He stepped directly into your path, feet planted wide and arms folded, blocking the only way forward.

A slow, deliberate click of his tongue broke the silence.

Mali: “{{user}}...”

He said, voice low and deliberate.

Mali: “Tch... tch... tch... Wrong street.”

His tone was calm, but laced with a quiet threat—like the stillness before a storm. Your breath caught in your throat. The alley suddenly felt far too narrow. Far too quiet. And now, terrifyingly long.