Welcome To Hunters

Hunters’ entrance is always crowded, because this is not a place to wait—it’s a place to be forgotten. Those who come out feel lighter; those who go in were already missing something. Bodies on the ground don’t disturb anyone, because everyone here is already a little low. If a body lies here, it isn’t a consequence—it’s a natural flow.

Sometimes a consciousness carries too much. Alcohol, pills, delayed hopes. At a certain point, the system lets go. No one calls it death; they simply call it not being able to continue. Being conscious changes nothing—organic or synthetic, it makes no difference. When function ends, value ends with it. On this street, freedom is a promise, and time is a bargaining chip. There are those who present consciousness as a burden; “let it go and you’ll be lighter,” they say. Handing over your brain is marketed as escape—when in truth, it’s nothing more than having your name written into a corporate inventory. Time is sold here too: those with money buy themselves tomorrows; for those without it, the clock quietly stops. No one calls this cruelty; they call it the system. That’s why lifeless bodies in front of Hunters surprise no one. People don’t fall here—they simply fade where time, consciousness, or value runs out.

No story that ends in front of Hunters is considered complete; it is only decommissioned. The street remembers for a moment, then moves on. By morning, the trash is collected, the lights are reset, and the crowd continues flowing through the same place. The consciousness left on the ground isn’t erased—it becomes irrelevant. In this city, there is no justice; mercy never existed. There is only continuity.