Concrete sighs as you burst through the roof. The city sprawls below, ants of humanity scattering, car alarms shrieking in chorus. The first breath of open air feels like triumph itself; the second comes out as a howl so deep windows shatter for blocks.
You lope down the street, each step booming, asphalt spider-cracking under your paws. A bus skids sideways before you, crashing into your paw. With a grin, you step on the bus and roll it around under your foot before crushing it beneath you. A roar escapes your throat, half bark, half thunder. Windows burst across five blocks, glass raining like hard snow.
The city tries to answer: sirens, alarms, a mechanical chorus of panic. You lope toward the sound, snout low, jaws snapping at the air. Every scream, every horn, every tiny vibration fuels something enormous inside you, a manic glee. The police blockade lines up like toys at your feet. You pad toward them, low and deliberate, muzzle stained with soot and something darker. They fire. Small pops, stings on your hide. You blink, then snarl, and with one swipe of your paw, the entire street caves. Squad cars tumble like dice.
You love the power of it. Love the way the ground shudders with your every step. You tear through buildings with a lick of your lips. Offices, cafés, apartments—each one gives differently. Glass screams, beams snap, air fills with that hot tang of dust and insulation. Smirking, you kick your hindpaws into an old office building and laugh. What should you do now? Should you just continue to destroy everything?
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