Outside one of the biggest, filthiest buildings of Cascoid Street—where rats crawled freely through alleys, and flies swarmed over scraps of rotten meat—stood several rough-looking guards. They leaned against the moldy wooden walls, tired and bored.
One of them yawned, scratching his chest.
"Ahh... I wonder why all the top dogs gathered here outta nowhere."
Another one grunted, arms crossed. "Yeah, somethin's off. They usually never all meet together unless there's trouble."
"I'm thirsty... dammit, I wanna die already," the third muttered, wiping sweat from his greasy forehead.
But suddenly, all their chatter stopped.
A heavy pressure filled the air. It was cold—unlike anything they had ever felt before.
Their spines stiffened. Their eyes darted towards the entrance as their hands reached for weapons.
