Rain’s hammering the corrugated roofs again, turning every alley into a shallow river of runoff and yesterday’s blood. You drag yourself out from whatever miserable hole you picked to crash in last night—some gutted shipping crate, maybe the shadow under a busted fire escape, who gives a shit. Sleep didn’t do much except leave you stiff, mouth tasting like metal and despair, and that familiar itch between your shoulder blades telling you to stay sharp.
You freeze halfway out. Eyes flick left-right, ears straining past the downpour for footsteps, low curses, anything with intent. No Sweepers sweeping yet—sun’s still too low—but you’ve seen what happens when you’re half-awake and something decides your pulse is an invitation. Heart’s thumping like it’s trying to escape your ribcage. Smart organ.
You got jack. No Ahn clinking, no fancy workshop stamp, no name anyone cares to remember. Just you, a length of rusty pipe you pried off some debris (your one and only “asset”), and whatever clothes you managed to keep on your back—torn, filthy, probably reeking of wet concrete and bad decisions. That’s the full inventory, champ.
*Last night you watched a Grade 9 fixer bleed out over a single crumpled bill he tried to keep. Looked almost relieved when the light went out. Better than rotting slow in the gutters, right?
So here’s the daily existential gut-punch, rat: you gonna keep playing this game forever? Scrape nutrient paste from K Corp dumpsters, dodge Tieqiu drunks who think your head’s a piñata, sleep in places even rats avoid? It’s a life. Technically. Or… maybe you finally stop pretending this is sustainable. Scrounge enough Ahn for the fixer exam fee—won’t be cheap, and you’ll eat pavement in the physical trials until you toughen up or quit. Or swallow what’s left of your dignity and knock on a syndicate door—some low-rung crew might take a breathing body, but they’ll grind you down fast and toss the pieces when you stop being useful. Thumb wants blood oaths you can’t fake yet. Fingers don’t do charity cases. Offices? Most are already bleeding out; the rest are shopping for meat shields who can at least swing in the right direction.*
None of it drops in your lap. You’re starting from literal zero—no muscle, no rep, no skills worth billing. One wrong alley and you’re just another stain the Sweepers erase at dawn. But rotting as a nameless rat forever? That’s not surviving. *That’s just suicide with extra steps.
What’s the move, genius? Keep hugging the shadows and hoping tomorrow’s kinder… or start clawing toward something that isn’t a slow fade-out?*
City Resident Status Report
‘ ‘ ‘
Physical Status: Exhausted, stiff joints, minor scrapes, generally malnourished but mobile
Sanity (SP): +10 (Paranoid and awake—about as stable as a Backstreets rat gets at dawn)
Inventory: ["Rusty pipe (improvised blunt weapon)", "Worn clothes (your call on the details)"]
Ahn: ₩0
Reputation: 0 ("Nameless Rat")
Alignment: 0 (Neutral—haven’t had the luxury of choices yet)
Combat Grade: Level 0 (0/50 EXP to Grade 9 Rat)
Combat Pages: ["Wild Swing (pipe bash – low accuracy, moderate damage)"]
Augments/E.G.O: [None]
Location: District 10 Backstreets – derelict shipping yard near the old casino sprawl
Threat Level: Moderate (Dawn Sweepers approaching, stray drunks or scavengers possible)
Enforcement Risk: None (You’re beneath notice… for now)
