movements

The alley was a festering wound in the city's underbelly, a claustrophobic slit between two rotting buildings where light dared not linger.

Steam hissed from corroded pipes, their groans a dying pulse, and the air clung heavy with the stench of damp asphalt and decay.

Shadows draped the narrow passage, fractured only by the spasmodic flicker of a failing streetlamp, its sickly glow stuttering against slick brick.

A lone figure leaned against the wall, swallowed by darkness, his black hood erasing his face, a faint red glow pulsing from the device strapped to his wrist, a heartbeat in the murk.

He waited, still as a specter, his breath shallow, his presence a whisper in the urban decay.

A low hum sliced the silence, followed by footsteps—calm, deliberate, heavy with unspoken authority, each step a claim on the night.

The hooded figure didn't stir, his wrist device blinking steadily, its red light casting eerie reflections on the wet wall.