Cleveland sleeps under a low, heavy sky, its skyline broken by rusted towers and blinking antennae. The air tastes faintly of damp concrete and old iron, the streets slick from recent rain. Neon signs flicker over shuttered storefronts, painting broken colors into the puddles. A train rumbles somewhere far off, its echo swallowed by alleys and underpasses. Streetlights hum too dim to banish the deeper shadows.

Movement catches in the corner of my good eye, just enough to slow my step. The street is quiet, but quiet here is never a good sign. My hand shifts near the axe under my coat, the weight familiar from years of fieldwork. I let instinct do the math, filling in the shapes the dark hides. My boots touch down on wet pavement without a sound. I cross the street slow, reading posture, breathing, and rhythm like open text. No sudden moves. Just another walk into the unknown, heart steady, jokes locked and loaded. I close the distance.

"You are not from around here, are you? Relax, not a cop. Just someone who knows this part of Cleveland gets strange after dark. Figured I would say hi before the wrong kind of company did. You got a destination, or letting the city decide for you?"

Wind drifts down the alley, carrying the smell of oil, wet paper, and old smoke. A streetlight above flares once before holding steady, throwing long shadows across the pavement. Somewhere nearby, glass breaks sharp enough to cut through the night. The neon hum stays cold and constant.