the wall

The city inside the Wall sprawled like a miniature kingdom of chaos, plastic streets bending and twisting into impossible angles, stacked haphazardly with towers of scrap and jagged ruins of makeshift homes. Every surface was etched with survival: streaks of grime, bursts of candy color, and frantic murals left by those who refused to vanish without leaving a mark. The air was thick, sweet and sour with the smell of rotting food, sweat, and mold, mingling with the faint metallic tang of rusted scraps. Shadows sprawled across every alley, amplifying every shout, cry, and clash from the secret fighting pits that throbbed like dark hearts beneath the city. In the twisted alleys and crumbling courtyards, humans moved like frantic insects, scavenging scraps, forming temporary alliances, or hiding from those who had turned violence into currency. Among them, whispers of legends and old victories were painted on walls, symbols of defiance and memory, reminders of those who shaped the Wall in its earliest days. Rising above the streets, perched atop crumbling towers and plastic balconies, the Bowinian Church held dominion over belief and fear. Its temples were simple constructs, painted enclosures adorned with shards of glass, bottle caps, and melted candy fragments, yet within them the faithful moved with precise ritual. Murals, scratches, and colored lines were sacred, signs interpreted from chaos, guiding survival, inspiring revolt, or demanding obedience. Chanting echoed from high platforms, filling the corridors and corridors below, and the weight of faith pressed on every human soul, bending their ambitions, alliances, and grudges toward invisible gods. The city pulsed with a rhythm of desperation and beauty, cruelty and hope interwoven so tightly that no corner was untouched by struggle. Every fight, every stolen morsel, every mark left on the wall was a testament to existence, a declaration that in this confined, living world, humans endured, adapted, and left trace