Under the shroud of a moonless night, the once quiet alley behind Old Saint’s Chapel turned into a tableau of whispered nightmares and raw violence. A lone figure, clutching a rusted but still deadly revolver, struggled with memories as jagged as the shattered glass underfoot. Nearby, the cold stone altar bore more than just the stains of recent rituals—its cracked surface held the silent testimony of tangled loyalties and unspoken grudges. The heavy scent of damp earth mixed with the acrid burn of spent cartridges, while flickering streetlamps cast grotesque shadows across faces hardened by betrayal and desperation. No names are spoken, but the scars on leather jackets and the glint of knives hidden beneath threadbare coats tell the tale of a city fraying at the edges.