Part of the dark world series. Dark world is the collection of stories that are far more violent then the other stories and often have brutal beat downs, sadistic fights and unforgiving knock outs. Great for your looking for a fight with more gritty tones. All stories take place in the same world.
Rain pelted the cracked concrete like it was trying to scrub away the rot, to wash the blood, piss, and pain down the storm drains. But it failed, it always did. The rain wasn’t strong enough to cleanse this city, let alone the alley behind the Rust Nail. It just pushed the filth around, moved it from one corner of hell to another. It was Dark City after all, and this part of Dark City wasn’t just forgotten. No, It had been exiled. Hope didn’t come here. Neither did mercy, or luck, or light. The alley was a graveyard of broken things, crushed bottles, twisted needles, rusted metal, and darker, softer piles you didn’t want to look at too long. Even the rats, veterans of survival, steered clear. Whatever was in this place was worse than hunger. Worse than death. The brick walls leaned inward like they were trying to crush the alley shut, tired of witnessing what happened here. Black water ran down them in long streaks, leaking from cracked drain pipes and unknown holes above. The graffiti on the walls, once full of fury and youth, was now faded, chipped, bleeding into the grime like memories too painful to hold on to.
Overhead, one flickering neon sign clung to the last of its life, buzzing in and out like a dying insect. It sputtered in dull red bursts, casting warped shadows across the walls and bodies below. The letters were half gone, the words meaningless now, just ghost syllables in a forgotten language of liquor and failure.
A single dented dumpster, tagged and burned, hunched like a silent witness. Its lid hung off one hinge, reeking of rot and old sins. Broken glass glittered in a puddle nearby, catching the weak light like teeth. The water was slick with motor oil, blood, or maybe something darker... it was stinking like a mixture of iron, gasoline, and old sweat. No one ever asked what those puddles were. They just stepped around them if they could. Or over them. Or through them, as if they didn’t care anymore. And truly? They didn't care anymore. This alley was a wound in the city, one of far to many, and one that was still festering. Open. Pulsing. You didn’t come here unless you wanted to disappear.
It was for the insane.
The
dumb.
The desperate.
And those with a death wish.