Beyond the sanctuary of iron-clad door, lurks another world.
A world of societal refuse, and needle-strewn alleys. Where regurgitated alcohol, is left to ferment on weather-stained streets, and the host of characters who tread them, are of the grimmest caliber of life. With bloated faces and jaundice skin, they roam, in the perpetual quest of self-medication. Wandering the ghetto, they appear as emaciated ghosts, with the stigma of disease written across every facet of their existence. In their listless stare, and puck-marked complexions. In their uncontrolled tremors, and the rancid, stale stench of their attire. Mere zombies, who have grown apathetic, to the almost embarrassing desperation of their situation. A social standing, which renders them slaves. To both the handouts of good Samaritans, and the felonies of petty crime. With the only concept of "refuge", being that of a urine-stained doorway, or the lice-riddled shelter cot, they become nomadic in nature. Condemned to rove the metropolitan landscape. Scavenging dumpsters for meals, and pillaging clothes from the deceased.
In this world, nobody "lives". They merely "exist".
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