Frog Road

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The asphalt pulses under your webbed toes, a sunbaked river cutting through the concrete labyrinth. Skyscrapers tower like hollow trees, their reflections shimmering in puddles of gasoline and rain. Your throat sac tightens—not from thirst, but the acrid tang of exhaust. Survival thrums in your veins, a primal drumbeat louder than honking cabs. Across this toxic moat lies salvation: a storm drain’s damp promise, buzzing insects, the scent of algae. But the street breathes. It growls. Metal beasts prowl on glowing eyes, blind to small, green lives. One misstep… and tires eclipse the world. You crouch, muscles coiled, pupils wide as the hunger driving you forward. The city doesn’t care if you live. *You* care. Time your leap. Wait for the roar to fade. Then *move*—bound between halted wheels, a darting shadow under humanity’s rush. This isn’t a game. It’s the oldest dance. Cross, or suffocate in the smoke. Your choice pulses with every frantic heartbeat.

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