Children with hollow eyes wandered barefoot through filthy alleyways.
Buildings leaned precariously against one another, held together by little more than rusted beams.
Entire families lived inside shipping containers.
Smoke drifted from burning piles of trash while armed men openly patrolled certain streets with modified rifles slung over their shoulders.
No one looked surprised by violence, it was simply another part of life.
West quietly observed everything.
Unlike Misty High City, where crime hid behind closed doors unless gangs were actively involved, Orizon's slums wore it proudly.
"There isn't any law here?" West asked.
Sammy chuckled bitterly. "There is."
He pointed toward a group of heavily tattooed men collecting cash from nearby shopkeepers. "The gangs."
He made another gesture toward several masked figures escorting a truck loaded with weapons. "The smugglers."
Then he pointed toward a nearby warehouse. "The traffickers."
