The alleys reeked of burnt oil, refuse, and sweat. Neon signs flickered over cracked pavement, reflecting the discontent in the eyes of those who prowled the night. The city's underworld had gone quiet, but it was not peace—it was frustration.
Small-time gangs, petty thieves, and independent villains moved nervously, cursing under their breath. Most were normally bold at night, operating with impunity, collecting their dues, running cons and small-scale heists. Now, the streets felt crowded with invisible eyes, drones buzzing overhead, streetlights augmented with scanners.
"This is bullshit," spat a wiry man leaning against a graffiti-stained wall, a cracked energy knife clutched in one hand. "Three patrols on every block. Every alley has a fucking camera. Solarius himself is patrolling two districts over. How the hell are we supposed to make a living?"
A woman with electric tattoos on her arms muttered bitterly, sparks faintly flickering as her fingers twitched. "We're ghosts in our own city. Every shadow I step into, every mark I leave… gone. Heroes everywhere. Fucking top ten, number one, all of them breathing down our necks."
They gathered near a rundown safehouse, the smell of stale cigarettes thick in the air. A few tried to organize a heist, small-scale only, nothing that would attract attention. Others argued over territory, frustrated that even the smallest moves risked intervention from the Academy cadets or Solarius' patrols.
"The black market's drying up too," growled another, larger figure. "No deliveries, no contacts. Everyone's hiding. You think the Veil's crew has it easy? Nah. Even they're lying low, waiting for the heat to die down. And we? We're fucked until the top ten spread themselves thinner."
A young thief shook his head, his hands trembling. "I swear, it's like the city itself is conspiring against us. We can't move without getting blasted, arrested, or worse. How are we supposed to run anything if Solarius is here, number one on the payroll, acting like a fucking god among men?"
The conversation was raw, unpolished, but it carried the truth of the city's shadow ecosystem. Small villains had no power against the hero elite; even minor missteps were punished severely. The streets were no longer playgrounds—they were traps.
Some tried to plan, to adapt. "We hit low-profile targets," suggested a wiry woman with faint smoke burns on her knuckles. "Nobody important, nothing flashy. Just enough to keep money moving."
Another sighed, tossing a coin into the cracked gutter. "And we wait. Like rats in a cage. Until the heroes turn their attention somewhere else. Until the top ten aren't watching every fucking move we make."
The frustration was palpable, almost contagious. Even in the shadows, ambition curdled into anxiety. Some muttered curses at the Academy, at Solarius, at the entire structure that favored the elite, the golden heroes over the street-level chaos that had once thrived.
Yet, beneath it all, a current of fear ran deeper than anger. They had seen what happened to those who overstepped. Vanished, captured, or worse—shredded in silence for the public to never hear of. Even now, the faint rumors of purple smoke stalking the alleys, of bodies quietly harvested for black-market trades, lingered like a warning.
"This city isn't ours anymore," the wiry man muttered again, running his hand over his scarred face. "Not for us. Not until something changes."
The night stretched long, empty, and frustrating. Every alley echoed with small curses, every shadow seemed heavier, and every flicker of light from a passing patrol reminded them that survival required patience, patience they had little of.
And somewhere high above the city, unseen, other shadows were already moving, planning the next step—patient, precise, and unyielding. The small-time villains were distracted, afraid, frustrated, and powerless. Perfect conditions for those who knew how to strike without being seen.