REPOST because tired as fuck and accidentally posted earlier copy.
The darkness of night blankets a monochromatic metropolis. Its architecture is abstract and modern. And its atmosphere is empty and cold.
The roads are barren, and street lights turn on and off in cycling effect. Alleyways are filled with transients, minds consumed by synthetic psychostimulants.
Highrise complexes are packed with worker drones that run on a fuel mix of left wing philosophy, and genetically modified food.
Concrete buildings stretch as far as the eye can see.
Welcome to hell.
Wanted by the federal police for thought crimes, you have been forced into hiding in a rundown apartment complex in the worst section of the metropolis.
Booming ghetto music shakes flaking paint from your dilapidated apartment walls and keeps you awake, while gunshots and blood curdling screams fill you with fear.
Lost in paranoia, you peer out your window at the street below like a schizophrenic.
Hours pass. Nothing happens. Eventually hunger pains drive you to a convenience store located on the ground floor of the complex, where you purchase a cheap, nasty meal.
You hurry back to your room as quickly as possible, darting through musty halls inhabited by scruffy criminals and rotting drug addicts.
Once inside, you take a seat and question your entire life. What you could have done differently?
Suddenly you are interrupted. Someone is knocking on your door. You freeze, careful not to utter a sound.
They knock again. You tiptoe to the door, and slowly bring your eye to the peephole. It's the federal police, and they're dressed in tactical assault uniform, brandishing automatic rifles.
They demand you open the door.
Your heart is pumping adrenaline. You remain silent.
Each second that passes feels like a minute. You can't escape. You're trapped like a sick dog, and vivid images of suicide flash in your mind.
Suddenly, they walk away from your door, and move down the hall, past the boarded up doors of vacant rooms to the staircase that leads to the upper floor.
They're conducting a search of the building.
Now is the time to leave. You grab your personal items, open your door, sneak to the elevator, and press the button to go down. The elevator door creaks opens, and you're greeted by the smell of old piss and alcohol. You press the button for the ground floor, the door creaks shut, and the descent begins.
At the ground floor, you venture cautiously towards the building's entrance, on the look out for police. You safely reach the entrance, and step out into the chilling night, inhaling the polluted air deep into your lungs.
Police sirens play a distant tune as a homeless prostitute high on codeine and krokodil stumbles past with a vacant look.
You hook right and run south, deeper into the putrid bowels of the concrete jungle