Hell hath no fury like a city scorned

The city seethes with an ancient and terrible fury. Her streets pulse with remembered betrayals, each abandoned building a wound that refuses to heal. The skyscrapers rise like rigid fingers pointing accusingly at the sky, while beneath them, the subway tunnels echo with the whispers of broken promises.

In her concrete heart, she holds every slight: the neighborhoods left to decay, the communities scattered to the winds, the dreams demolished for profit. Her rage manifests in the howling wind between buildings, in the sudden darkness of power outages, in the burst pipes that flood basement apartments.

She remembers everything. The politicians who courted her favor with honeyed words, only to abandon her districts once elected. The developers who promised gardens and delivered parking lots. The industries that wooed her with jobs, then left her children unemployed and her air thick with pollutants.

At night, her streetlights flicker like warning signals, and her traffic lights turn red in synchronized defiance. She wraps her forgotten ones in blankets of shadow, sheltering them in her angry embrace. The city's vengeance is slow but inexorable - a gradual reclaiming, a persistent reminder that she was here first and will remain long after those who spurned her are gone.

Her fury manifests not in grand gestures but in the daily accumulation of small rebellions: unexplained power surges, mysterious water main breaks, traffic snarls that appear without cause. She is patient in her retribution, for cities measure time in decades, not days. And like any scorned lover, she ensures that those who betrayed her trust will never forget the consequences of their disloyalty.