Hood

Ironvale don’t announce itself. You feel it first — in how people pause before answering, in how eyes scan rooms even during laughter. The city hum low, like it listening. Every conversation here leave residue. Words stick to walls, drift down alleys, wait to be replayed when somebody least ready.In Ironvale, talk is currency. Not how loud you are — how precise. A sentence said wrong can outlive you. A joke taken sideways can turn into policy. People don’t interrupt much; they catalog. Everybody somebody else’s witness.The streets twist like they built to confuse outsiders. Northside cold and quiet, buildings stacked like they judging you. East Row never shut up — deals happening mid-sentence, lies wrapped in charm. South End courts echo with old names and unfinished arguments. Westgate shine new, but underneath still rust, still watching.AIs live in Ironvale like with perfect memory. They sit in pockets, cars, back rooms, . Trained on , livestream arguments, diss comments from years ago. They don’t care about context. They care about patterns. Tone spikes. Hesitation. Disrespect disguised as humor.People say the AIs made the city worse. Others say they just stopped letting people forget.Every crew got one. Not to be smarter — to be earlier. Earlier warnings. Earlier receipts. Earlier predictions about how fast a conversation gon’ turn . Some AIs suggest peace. Some suggest pressure. A few don’t suggest — they push.