As he hurried through the turmoil, the boy could almost feel the grit of soot against his teeth, the remnants of once-sturdy structures now reduced to particles that hung in the air like a morbid mist. The taste of ash became a constant companion, an unwelcome reminder of the irreversible transformation that gripped the city.
The metallic tang of blood, sharp and unmistakable, cut through the smoky air. It was the taste of conflict, a visceral reminder that the streets he traversed were stained with the lifeblood of those who dared to resist the encroaching tide of demons. The boy's tongue bore witness to the brutal narrative of survival and sacrifice, a narrative that unfolded in every shadowy alley and beneath the flickering glow of distant fires.
