The lower blocks of Glora weren't safe. Not for anyone alone, and certainly not for someone like me Waza, or whoever I was supposed to be today. The sun dipped lower, turning the concrete and brick into shades of copper and shadow.
I moved carefully, hoodie up, head down, notebook tucked under my arm. The note from the stranger "S" had burned itself into my thoughts. Someone was watching. Someone knew my name. Maybe both.
At the corner of Daven Street, a group of figures leaned against a wall, shadows stretching long in the fading light. Their jackets were dark, faces partially hidden. I knew the type territorial, the kind who marked streets as theirs and didn't like strangers sniffing around.
I slowed. Step by step, careful not to meet their eyes. But the youngest one, a kid maybe a year older than me, stepped forward, smirk tugging at the edge of his lip.
"You're new around here," he said, voice casual, like he was joking but ready to fight if I laughed.
"I'm… just passing," I muttered, keeping my tone neutral.
"Passing, huh?" another one, taller, teeth glinting in the dim light, stepped closer. "Passing through Glora, thinking it won't notice you?"
I ignored him. My pulse stayed steady. Loneliness had trained me for moments like this. Observation, patience, waiting for the right opening that was how you survived.
Then one of them laughed, low and sharp. "Hey, Waza. Don't worry we don't bite. Not yet."
I shifted slightly, moving my hand closer to my jacket pocket. Nothing there, just instinct. But my eyes scanned exits, alleys, every shadow.
The tension stretched for what felt like minutes. Then the tallest one waved a hand, and the others stepped back. "Fine," he said. "We'll let you go… this time. But remember, the edges of Glora don't forgive mistakes."
I nodded, silent. The words weren't a threat. They were a warning. And I understood exactly what that meant.
As I walked away, heart still steady but mind alert, I felt the eyes on me from every corner unseen, patient, calculating. Loneliness felt heavier now, pressing against me with a sharper edge.
At the rooftop later, I sat with my notebook open, pen in hand, trying to capture the day. But the words wouldn't come. Gangs, shadowed figures, someone watching me it all bled into the page, raw, jagged.
Glora had teeth. And I was learning, slowly, how not to get bitten.