The sky above Funk City is streaked in pink and neon. The streets pulse with music — some fast, some slow — like the city breathes through basslines.

You walk alone. Past glowing vending machines. Past a crowd forming near the alley — someone's about to perform again. You don’t stop.

Speakers thrum on rooftops. A kid breakdances on a bus stop bench. An animatronic-looking guy skateboards by, headphones on, not even glancing your way.

A flyer flutters against your leg:

“Funk City Underground — Midnight Mic Clash. Everyone's watching.”

You don’t pick it up.

You keep walking.

Nobody’s looking at you. Nobody’s calling you out. You're just part of the crowd.

(But something in the beat feels… off today. Like it’s watching you instead.)