The blood wouldn't stop.
It poured in unrelenting sheets, soaking the city in crimson. The gutters were clogged with it, drains choking on rivers of dark red that bubbled and frothed like open wounds. The metallic stench was so thick in the air that breathing felt like swallowing knives.
Umbrellas dotted the streets — flimsy shields against a nightmare. People ran, their black canopies useless against the heavy downpour. The fabric turned slick, dripping scarlet onto shoulders, shoes, and hair. Mothers clutched children under umbrellas, dragging them through the blood-slick streets. Suits and dresses stained red. Shoes squelched. The world was painted in gore.
And still, they ran.
Traffic was chaos. Cars honked wildly, some crashing into one another as drivers tried to escape. Pedestrians screamed, slipping in the blood, some dropping their umbrellas in panic. Preachers screamed of the end of days, their voices cracking. Others cursed at the sky, fists raised.
