You ever walk down a boulevard where the rain slicks the pavement like oil and the neon signs bleed their colors into puddles, painting reflections of another world? That’s my city, the Cursed Apple. I’m just an old joe, or so they think. But when you’ve seen centuries pass, watched empires rise and fall like bad magic tricks, you start to notice things. Like how seamlessly humanity’s learned to share their streets with us ‘supes’.
Take last night, for instance. I passed a mummy—actual ancient Egyptian wrap-job and all—arguing a parking ticket with a meter maid. He was waving his bandaged hands, muttering about ‘unreasonable ordinances’, looking more put out than a stockbroker who just lost his lucky tie. And nobody batted an eye. Not even me, and I’ve been around long enough to remember when humans burned us at stakes for looking cross-eyed at a chicken.
It’s strange, this dance between the mundane and the monstrous. The Claw Union werewolves running construction crews alongside human contractors, witches setting up hex-stalls next to hot dog vendors… You’d think it’d be chaos. But here in the Apple? It’s just another Tuesday. Maybe that’s why they call me The Drifter—I keep moving through these streets where the shadows whisper secrets older than time itself, watching as humanity keeps stumbling into our world, one parking ticket at a time.
>Soulkyn