District 21 by Indrapramit Das

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The alleyways loomed around him, enclosing him in tight corridors of gaudy green, pale yellows and blues, and dirty whites. A mosaic of gaudily colored tenement walls. Artificial plants dangled from narrow windows, their sickly plastic leaves layered with dust from the air. Even in the alleys, he could hear the sounds of the gang-boys and gang-girls running free on the roads. The City-Watch did not visit the district too often.
Phosphorus street lamps cast harsh orange halos in the haze of rain. He could see Cutters watching from shadowy doorways, eyeballing him for the catch. Switch-blades clicked in and out, playfully. Throat dry and heart pounding, he rummaged in his jacket and tossed his wallet out onto the street. There were three notes there, grace money only. His cards he'd left at home, along with photos and ID. One of the Cutters scrambled out from one of the niches to grab the wallet, followed by two others who sprinted across the street like hungry dogs. He heard the smack of fists connecting with flesh and bone, the hiss of a blade sinking into a body. The murmur of panicked breath, a frantic grunt. He jumped as a gunshot rang through the alleys. Two more followed, deafening. He felt gooseflesh prickle up and down his neck.
"You walk through fire, you get burned, shit-bird," came a voice from behind him. The surviving Cutter. An empty soda can came spiraling through the air and hit him on the head. His scalp numb with pain, he ignored it and walked into one of the underground tunnels to the sub-level apartment complex. The Cutter's laugh was mocking, as it faded to be replaced with the buzz of the tunnel lights.

LONG LIVE THE PLAGUE, read the graffiti near the mouth of the sloping tunnel passageway. A grotesquely misshapen penis seemed to grow out of the four words. A large cockroach scuttled across it, as if following its contours of rancid black spray-paint like a trail.
He walked through the tunnels, under pavements and past the foundations of the buildings above. Past signs set in the ceilings, which gave directions to the different blocks of the underground tenements. His footsteps followed him, playful stragglers in the restless silence of the tunnels. The doors were all stamped with a red D. For derelict. 6-B, said the sign above his head. A carnival of insects flocked around the lights next to it, clicking against the metal and glass.
VOMITORY 6-B, said the letters on the pea-soup green and white tiled walls, glistening like a damp bathroom. He came to a stop in front of the door beside the letters, the door labeled 3-B. There was no D stamped on it. He slid the key-card into the slot by the steel door, and waited as it hissed open. "Welcome home", said a warped electronic voice. He had not been through the door in ten years.

The hallway was silent and empty. He walked into the split-level living room. The furniture and plastic plants were covered in dust, the only light coming through the ceiling grates, their rain shutters open. He could see the city lights through them, the pavement lamps shining through in faint slivers pronounced by the veil of water sneaking through.