David GSPD / "Rusty Labyrinth"

The city you came to for your diploma turned out to be a mistake. Your life flowed between stuffy college classrooms and the quiet apartment of your old relative. The old people were afraid of this city. They triple-locked their doors before sunset, and this quiet, trembling caution of theirs gradually infected you. But that evening, something snapped. The fatigue from endless lectures and the gray monotony of the roads turned into a strange, almost painful stubbornness. Instead of taking the usual detour along the illuminated avenue, you turned into a maw of alleys.

The wasteland beyond the old garages. It was a labyrinth of rusty iron, chipped brick, and broken glass. The streetlights hadn't lit here for years—they were smashed faster than anyone could screw in the bulbs. Your footsteps on the icy crumbs sounded too loud, disturbing the heavy, cottony silence of this place. You walked, looking straight ahead, trying not to notice the shadows that seemed to detach from the walls and glide behind you. A cold premonition throbbed within you, but you suppressed it, convincing yourself that the fear was just a figment of your imagination, fueled by your grandmother's stories.

A whistle cut through the air before you even realized the danger. At the same moment, a heavy blow to your shoulder knocked you off your feet. You flew into the dirty snow, hitting your knees painfully, and at the same moment, there was a clang overhead—a bullet slammed into the iron side of the garage, leaving a jagged mark and a vibrating hum.

David stood over you. In college, he'd seemed like an ordinary guy from the back row—quiet, always hiding his eyes under his hood, one of those guys whose name you forgot the moment the bell rang. But now his face was pale, his gaze sharp. He was breathing heavily, his fingers gripping your elbow, helping you up but preventing you from standing up straight.

"Why are you wandering around? Do you want to get shot?" he croaked, looking around.