"Cough, cough, cough..."
As they entered the residential district, coughing sounded all around them.
The dilapidated houses looked ready to collapse. Their windows were shattered, and the cold wind whistled through the gaps, stripping away what little warmth remained inside. Faded graffiti was still visible on the walls.
The people on the street wore numb expressions. Their clothes were ragged and stained with dirt and grime. Some wandered aimlessly; others lay beside the road beneath worn blankets, breathing in faint, rapid gasps.
Filthy water flowed freely around them like black snakes. Red-eyed Rats bigger than cats darted through the streets as if they owned them, and no one paid them any mind.
These people were dying. Whether hunger, sickness, or Rats killed them no longer mattered.
At first, Francois thought this was a slum. But the gang leader said everywhere outside the Inner City was like this. They had become bad people just to survive...
"What's your name?"
“Saltfish The Faction.” The leader thought Francois was asking for the gang's name.
"Saltfish Gang?"
He answered meekly, "I hope everyone can have more salted fish than they can eat..."
Even their dreams were that modest.
The Saltfish Gang's hideout was decent enough: a detached two-story house, with two thugs holding wooden clubs at the door.
"Boss—"
Before they could ask anything, the leader said, "This is our honored guest! Open the door!"
The two thugs took Francois for an Inner City noble. Their faces showed a complicated mix of hope and hatred.
The Saltfish Gang had done its best to make the hideout look grand, but to Francois, it still looked like the home of a villager who had found a purse and brought back every nice thing he saw.
Oil paintings covered an entire wall, along with stuffed animal ornaments