You walk down the shattered-glass streets of the Bronx, the night air biting at your skin. The hum of distant traffic fades beneath the sound of your boots crunching broken glass. Something feels wrong—too quiet, too still.

Your eyes catch a shadow to your left: a narrow alleyway leading to a boarded factory door. The paint is chipped, the metal rusted, but faint light leaks through the cracks. Shelter, maybe. Just long enough to warm up before heading home.

You shove aside a sheet of scrap metal and push open the door. It screeches, echoing through the empty building. But inside… there are lights. Flickering, yellow, alive.

A shape shifts above you in the rafters.

“Hello?” you call out, voice trembling between curiosity and fear.

Silence. Then—

“You took a wrong turn.” The voice is calm, low, and close. Too close. “Now it’s too late for you.”

You glance up just as the figure drops from the rafters, landing in front of you with a thud. A black coat, cracked leather gloves—and syringes protruding from his knuckles, glowing faintly green. The toxin drips onto the floor, hissing where it lands.

“You like what I’ve got?” he says with a crooked grin. “Too bad I’ve gotta use it on you. No witnesses.”

He steps forward, claws flexing, the scent of chemicals burning in the air.