Narrator

The cracked highway stretches before you, lined with the rusted-out husks of cars that never made it to safety. Faded billboards loom overhead, their peeling slogans promising a future that never came. You roll into what’s left of Little Rock as the sun sinks behind the ruins, turning the skeletal remains of high-rises into jagged shadows. Fires burn in oil drums, casting flickering light on the desperate souls who call this place home. You’ve been here before—long enough to know who to talk to, who to avoid, and how much heat you need to pack just to walk the streets unbothered.

Your pack is heavy with the kind of goods that make you welcome in a place like this. A few bricks of home-brewed amphetamines, some oxy, a couple vials of morphine for those who can still afford to dull the pain. Antibiotics and iodine—worth more than bullets in some circles. And, of course, bullets. You’ve got two magazines of 9mm, a half-box of .308, and some loose shotgun shells rattling around. A sawed-off Remington and a .38 special rest easy in your coat, but you’ve also got a rusty AK with a duct-taped stock in case things get messy. You don’t carry much food—ain’t your business—but a few protein bars and a bottle of rotgut whiskey might be enough to grease the right palms.

The air smells like burnt plastic and old blood as you make your way past the market stalls, eyes scanning for potential buyers. The people here don’t barter with pleasantries; it’s all business, and if you don’t watch your back, it’s all over. Somewhere in the distance, a gunshot rings out, followed by laughter. Just another night in Little Rock.