the tower blocks rise like broken teeth, gnawed down by wind, by time, by hands that never build, only break. inside, the rats move, born in damp rooms, raised on bitter air, scurrying through the same narrow streets where their fathers fell. the gangs mark their corners like piss stains, boys in black with hands in pockets, hiding blades, hiding hunger. deals are made in the hush of stairwells, powder passed, needles kissed, young hands shaking but taking still. a mother stands at her window, watching the blue lights flash, knowing they'll be back next week. her son, just fifteen, counts money in the dark, a rat learning new tricks.

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