Mihai grabbed his brother’s shoulder, turning him around. "Power without a soul is just a faster way to a grave. Look around you. The values we were raised on—loyalty, blood, truth—they’re being auctioned off to the highest bidder."

As the SUV roared away, leaving a cloud of acrid smoke, Mihai looked up at the grey sky. The concrete was cold, the future was uncertain, but as long as one person refused to sell out, the "strange times" wouldn't win.

Leo didn't turn around. "Everything’s changed, Mihai. You’re still living in the '90s. Respect doesn't buy bread anymore. Power does."

Across the street, a black SUV sat idling, its windows opaque. It was a predator in a concrete jungle. Mihai remembered when the streets belonged to the kids with soccer balls; now, they belonged to the "families" who traded in secrets and survival. There was no middle ground anymore—you were either the hammer or the nail.

The SUV’s window rolled down an inch. A heavy bass beat thrummed from inside, a rhythmic heartbeat of a city that had lost its way.

"Vremuri ciudate," Mihai muttered, the lyrics of an old anthem playing like a ghost in the back of his mind. Strange times. The world felt like it was spinning faster, yet the people in the shadows were standing still, caught in the same loops of poverty and pride.

"Go home," Mihai whispered, his eyes fixed on the car. "The 'strange times' are here because we let the wrong things matter. Don't let them take you too."