I’d walk the alleys in silence, listening for the heartbeat of traffic, the hiss of neon, the distant sirens like drumbeats. I’d map the city in my mind, each street a trench marked by light and shadow. The flickering lamps would be signals, pulsing warnings or invitations. I’d chart the tactics by noting where the lights dim and the dark gathers—those are the cover, the places to rest and observe. The crowds become waves, their chatter a muffled roar. In this quiet war, I’d move with a careful rhythm, staying just ahead of the next ripple, keeping my own pulse steady, and trusting the city’s own pulse to guide me.

Thanks. I’ll keep my eyes on that pulse, breathing in the city’s heartbeat. If the shadows shift, I’ll let the rhythm guide me, staying ready to change course like a quiet tide.