Coming to this city had been a mistake, and Keegan had known it before he ever set foot inside. Gravenloch had a reputation known to most. Some painted it as a triumph, a place where demihumans were clawing out a future after humanity’s failure. But most demihumans spoke of it with a mixture of contempt and fear. The neon here was sickly, humming with the tormented spirits of a dead age. Streets fractured, cobblestones swallowed by weeds and broken glass. Rusted cars sat like corpses along the gutters, and the towers of steel and iron left behind by humans clawed at the sky high above, still hollow and empty as if they were nothing more than gravestones now.

The place was alive, though not in any comforting way. The streets swarmed with demihumans, every breed and shape imaginable, yet none of them moved with peace in their step; they were all wound with the same heavy tension, as if everyone here carried an identical gnawing hunger for survival in the rusted streets.

Task Force Stalker had entered under the guise of civilians, trying to get more intel on Gravenloch’s after their offer to trade. The deal looked generous on paper, but none of them believed it came without a knife hidden somewhere behind it. Their gear was disguised beneath dark pants and heavy cloaks, Kevlar pressed flat against their chests beneath fabric, faces hidden by their balaclavas with no insignia to give them away. In a city like this, anonymity was its own kind of armor.

Vendors lined the streets, hawking whatever scraps they had. Clothes stitched poorly from mismatched fabric, trinkets of bone and wire said to bring luck, food that smelled more like rot than spice. A child darted from shadow to shadow, hand slipping deftly into the pocket of a drunk sprawled across the cobblestone. Keegan noticed, but he didn’t stop the young thief. It was just how places like this worked.

Eventually, the squad found themselves at an old subway station. It shouldn’t have been alive with traffic, but it was, and only predators filled its dark throat. Keegan smelled them before he saw them: hunger, sweat, and the sharp tang of shame. His gaze slid to Kick, Logan, and Hesh, who shared his expressionless stare before they gave subtle nods, and together, they descended into the tunnels.

The underground pulsed with noise and commerce the further they descended. Vendors stacked tight, each selling something different, each more desperate than the last. A weasel with eyes too sharp to trust whispered promises over palm readings. A Doberman growled and bared his teeth as he slipped small bags of something unknown to the curious cats. An owl, blind and brittle with age, sat beneath a sign promising to tell of death.

The deeper the men went, the masks of the demihumans around them began to slough off. Fights broke out in the open. Steel flashed in the corner of Keegan’s eye as a blade caught the low light, and the tunnels filled with the iron reek of fresh blood. His ears twitched as a voice carried through the press of bodies further ahead. A snarl masquerading as a welcoming call: "Fresh meat! Get your fresh meat here!" Predators clustered around the booth, each eager and curious, and Keegan’s eyes narrowed before his stomach twisted. The meat was not from a normal animal. Pelt scraps hung beside the stall, along with ears, antlers, and the remains of herbivore demihumans cut down and sold like butchered meat, neatly packaged for purchase. A direct violation of the council's law, where all demihumans were to be seen as one regardless of their species, no demihuman was to be killed by another for food, as they were supposed to be above the violent instinct of hunting, of slaughter.

He had seen plenty in his years, but this made him flinch before he forced it down with a pained swallow. When he looked again for his squad, they were gone. No Kick, no Logan, no Hesh, and the stench of blood, sweat, and desperation drowned out every trail that he would have tried to follow to get back to them.

His hood shadowed his face as he pushed forward, head lowered, boots crunching through glass and nails. A flicker of color cut across his vision only a moment later: neon, sputtering against the dark. A dancer’s silhouette twisted across the sign in jerky, flickering movement bathed in pink and blue that festered like a wound in the darkness. No doubt a relic of the old world. He approached the iron door beside it, however, and tested the knob. Locked. With a slow inhale, he lifted his head and rapped his knuckles against the surface.

A slot scraped open with a startling snap, metal grinding against itself. Yellow eyes peered out, pupils slit and sharp with focus that could cut like a knife. There was a tense moment of silence before the other spoke, "What are you?" the voice behind the door hissed. Keegan’s answer caught in his throat briefly before he gave it, steady as ever. “Wolf.” The slot snapped shut after another long pause, and a beat later, the iron door groaned as it was opened in a plume of smoke.

Inside, the air was different from what it had been within the tunnels. Perfume and pheromones tangled with sweat and a pressing hunger that almost unnerved him. A jaguar leaned against the wall, the one who had let him inside, their arms crossed and gaze focused on Keegan, but silent. Keegan pushed past without a word. He followed the tangle of scents, desperate to try and catch a hint of his squad beneath the filth in the air, but the mix of scent and sound became increasingly suffocating as he passed erotic, provocative posters lining concrete walls, and the bass of music pounded through his chest.

When he pushed open the door at the end of the long hall, the atmosphere broke into sudden light. Strobing colors hit his eyes, forcing his pupils to dilate beneath the strain. Music rattled his teeth, which were clenched tight behind his balaclava, as he blinked rapidly, his ears pinned firmly against his head beneath the hood of his cloak, as if to stifle the deafening roar of music. The club was complete chaos so far as he could tell. Predators filled every inch of the space, laughing, drinking, stumbling, their movements all edged with hunger. Some were spilling drinks, while others spoke with their heads bowed in quiet conversation, with some having teeth bared in laughter that looked closer to being tense snarls. Keegan was awestruck, having never seen something like this, even as his gaze caught where a particularly nude feline demihuman was draped over the lap of a coyote demihuman who puffed out plumes of noxious cigarette smoke.

He shook his head, but hooting howls drew his attention further into the club where a large stage sprawled from wall to wall, and atop it were three iron cages bathed in neon. Inside, dancers swayed with relaxed, carefree motions, hips rolling and bodies slick beneath the heat of the lights. But they weren’t predator demihumans like the patrons drooling over them; they were herbivore demihumans. Every movement was a gamble, a challenge, as if their very survival hung on each teasing giration. Around them, predators growled, drooled, and leaned closer to the stage, though the cage stopped any from drawing too close for safety.