This was a bit of a stylistic experiment for me; it's very different from what I normally do so if you could review it and let me know if you think it worked, that would be great. Enjoy!
He knew the city better than anyone and this wasn't bragging because it was true. He knew every inch of the alleyways, the concert halls, the clinics, the graveyards. And the city spoke to him, this city that never slept, much like the one that had been called New York not so very long ago. The city spoke and he listened and it was a good partnership. It complained of its aches and pains (largely avoidable ones, really, if one followed the proper precautions but considering that it would put him out of a job he never mentioned that) and he played the good doctor and gave it the cure. And when the cure wore off and the city came crying back to him, he was more than willing to help… for a small price, of course.
And he could feel the city move in all its filthy, savage beauty, a home for worthless degenerates obsessed with carving off their faces and sewing on new ones, a sanctuary for the drug-addled and confused. And yes, he fed into that, and why not? It brought character to the world, after all, character so desperately needed with all the bleating sheep that populated the world these days. The lost city sang its swan song and only he could interpret it because only he truly understood what made this city the way it was. It was society dictating every facet of life and norms being accepted without a second thought and a single company devouring the world, one unpaid debt at a time. It was pain and grime and blood and sanitized white rooms and men in masks behind every corner. It was paranoia, always looking over your shoulder lest you let down your guard and find the repo man standing beside you one day, cruelly sharp blades thirsting for the taste of your blood. And it was that glowing blue liquid stolen from the heads of corpses—unnatural, sickening, and more addictive than any other drug.
Yes, he understood this city and it was his. It sang to him and he sang to it, because at the end of the day, they understood each other and that was more than you could say for anyone or anything else in this godforsaken place. That was one more thing they had in common. They had both had seen God, smiled at him, and then turned their backs, opting for a more lucrative arrangement with the devil. And the devil served them both well.
The Graverobber smiled as he snapped the luminescent blue bullet into the gun and aimed it at the dead-eyed young woman standing in front of him. Yes, this was his city, all right. His city, his song, his world.
And in the end that was enough.