The hidden side of the city had a reputation.
Its history was almost legendary; it was said that its founders had been born in such an obscure way that nobody ever knew who they were. That, however, is not to say that their lives were not good. The streets are quiet and peaceful. There is no crime or disorder. It’s perfect.
Except for one man, who walks down them as if he owns the place. He has short hair, black and curly. He wears a leather jacket with a torn sleeve on his right arm; and on his back is a pistol, attached to the belt. He seems like he hasn’t slept or eaten in days, but he doesn’t look tired at all. Instead, he looks excited, even eager about something.
He stops when he sees the sign. He smiles softly to himself as he reads what’s written there. Highway to hell.