The streets are a dangerous place. If you’re not careful, they take away everything that is precious to you - your money, your dignity, your life. But the streets have also taught me how to take it back, even if the price is paid in blood. No one gives a damn about you here. Everyone just fights for themselves, trying to scrape together enough to survive. The lower district is nothing but a battleground - fists, knives, and desperation deciding who gets to see tomorrow. You learn fast that trust is a risk you can’t afford to take. The City Watch rules the upper district, protecting the posh and rich as they look down on us. To them, we’re nothing more than scum – filth from the gutter. After the Great Flood, the sea swept through the ravines and chasms left by the meteorites, washing away the toxic dust that had poisoned the lower levels, which became habitable again. To power their pristine city above, the upper class erected the Geodome - a colossal structure of steel and stone, towering as a monument to their greed. It draws energy from deep underground, from unknown sources of power. But its foundations are soaked with blood and bones. Thousands of us were enslaved to build it, crushed beneath its weight long before the first flicker of their city’s lights ever reached the sky. Now, we’re stuck down here. Anyone who dares to venture into the upper districts is rarely seen again. Sometimes, their bodies find their way back down to us - thrown into the chasm by the City Watch. A warning. A reminder of where we belong.
I glance out the cracked window, up towards the sky. The bright, towering buildings of the upper district loom over the 110th like vultures circling their prey. Something’s been stirring up in Duskreach in the last couple of months - more whispers from the depths and the alleys. Soon the hunter will become the hunted…
I reach for my crossbow, resting against an old oil can by my makeshift bed. Strapping it to my drop holster on my right leg, I check my belt. Four darts left, plus six already loaded in the crossbow. Not much, but enough for today’s job. I breathe in the salty breeze from the sea, letting it wash over me as I take a last look at the upper district, illuminated by the last rays of the sun, before beginning my decent into the second ring.
The shadows seem to stretch a little longer down here, as if they're trying to pull you in deeper with every second that ticks by. The deeper you go, the worse it gets. Your life expectancy drops with every step. Tonight, I’m heading to the fifth ring. Duskreach’s lower district is like a maze, tunnels stretch endlessly through the caves, ladders rise up, and bridges cross the chasms. As I make my way through the second ring toward a supply shaft, I pass by a stall cobbled together from scraps. The vendor, an old woman with tired eyes, calls out to me.
“Map of the city, stranger. Worn, but still holds the way. It’ll get you anywhere you need to go.” I eye the tattered parchment she waves in my direction, her fingers shaking as she holds it out. But it’s all a lie. Duskreach isn’t a place you can navigate with a map - it’s something you survive by instinct. I shake my head, my boots grinding into the dirt as I walk on. Usually, I take the direct path from the second down to the third, but since I have to go even deeper this time, I chose the supply shaft near the docks. It connects all rings except the seventh and is an easy way to get almost anywhere without being seen in Duskreach. With the elevators out of commission at night, the shaft offers a deep, hollow wooden structure, perfect for climbing.
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The air smells of rust and dampness, thick with the scent of rotting wood and old sewage. The only obstacle in my path right now is two members of the Bloodhound gang, who hold sway over the first few rings. Small fry compared with the syndicates, still foes to be reckoned with. Each of them carries daggers the size of machetes and they are accompanied by a Growler - a wolf-sized beast, its paws more or less resembling hooves, making them able to run on almost vertical walls. They were bred solely for one thing: to kill.
The yard I arrive in is cramped, even more than the alley I just came through, the walkway narrow enough that you can feel the walls closing in. This place isn’t just storage; it’s a hub for the supply routes, and that’s why the Bloodhounds keep watch. The silence here isn’t peaceful. It’s the kind of quiet that sits on your skin like a weight, pressing down until you can't tell where the stillness ends and the danger begins. The two guards stand near the entrance to the yard, their attention mostly focused on the narrow alley leading deeper into the district. Their pet, however, is lingering behind a pile of rusty pipes to the left, hidden in the shadows where the guards’ view doesn’t reach.
I hide behind stack of crates peering out cautiously to not avoid the Growler. The beast is my first priority, but taking it down with my crossbow would make too much noise drawing attention from other the other gang members nearby. I scan the area, searching for anything that might help me slip by unnoticed. I wait for the right moment, watching the animal’s movements as it sniffs the air, its massive body shifting restlessly. I need to act fast before it picks up my scent. Slowly, I pull out a small vial of poison from my belt. It's not much, but it’s enough. I slip around the stack of boxes, keeping low and using the shadows to my advantage. The beast doesn’t notice me until I’m almost upon it. With a quick motion, I press the vial to its muzzle, the scent of the poison overwhelming its senses. It jerks back in confusion, then staggers. It lets out a growl, but within moments, its legs give out, and it slumps to the ground, unconscious. I exhale quietly, wiping the sweat from my brow. That’s one down, but I’m still not out of the woods. I move past the beast’s fallen body, careful not to make a sound, and silently approach the two gang members.
I toss the vial, empty and thus no longer of use for me, across the yard, the sharp crack of it breaking on the cold stone echoes through the air. The two gang members immediately turn, searching the darkness for a threat, hands hovering over their daggers.
“You heard that?” one mutters, eyes squinting as he scans the shadows.
“We should check it out”
“You see to it ” the other snaps,
“Imma check on the mutt.” The first guard grumbles, his boots kicking up rocks and dust as he moves toward the noise. His partner shifts his attention toward the sleeping Growler. I slip behind the rusty pipes, keeping low and out of sight, as the thug scolds the sleeping beast, bashing his dagger against the pipes. Without another glance, I move past him and edge toward the yawning maw of the supply shaft. I can hear my own breath, ragged and shallow, cutting through the still night. It's the only sound that feels real, the only thing I can trust. Looking down the pit I mutter to myself
“It’s a long way down” before beginning my final decent.
