The city of Glora never paused. Even before the sun fully rose, the streets hummed with a restless rhythm engines coughing, shutters rattling, vendors shouting prices. Waza moved through it all, hood pulled low, hands tucked into his pockets. He was alone, as usual, but his eyes were wide open.
He noticed the small things first: the man with slicked-back hair counting notes at the corner café, a kid selling knockoff electronics from a cardboard box, the way people shifted when certain figures passed by. Everyone had a rhythm, a place, a hierarchy and Waza was learning to read it.
Money. It wasn't just coins or bills it was influence, attention, control. Waza could see it dripping from the way people walked, the way their eyes lingered, the subtle nods exchanged between strangers. He didn't have it. Never had it. But observing it was free, and that was his advantage.
He climbed onto the rooftop overlooking East Market, one of the busier districts. From here, he could see the patterns: couriers weaving between stalls with bundles of cash, shopkeepers exchanging quick smiles with men who clearly didn't belong there, and the occasional flash of a bike weaving too fast to be legal.
Waza's notebook sat heavy in his jacket pocket. He had scribbled notes before, but today, the lines of ink felt like maps of a hidden world invisible to most, obvious to him.
A figure moved across the street below, tall, lean, hair cropped short, dressed like they had money but moved like they didn't care. Waza tilted his head, curious. That confidence wasn't something you learned overnight. That presence? Influence.
He stayed hidden, silent, watching as the figure exchanged words with another low, careful, almost reverent. Waza didn't understand the conversation, but he could feel the energy: control, fear, respect. The city had layers, and he was finally seeing them.
The more he watched, the more he realized: survival wasn't about brute strength alone. It was about noticing the patterns. Learning the boundaries. Understanding who could help, who could hurt, and who just existed to be ignored.
He dropped down from the rooftop and moved into the alleys behind the market, narrow paths few people used. Shadows shifted along the walls, rats scurrying, the faint smell of fried oil and exhaust mixing with damp concrete. Even here, the subtle power games played out: a vendor giving an extra discount to a certain man, a kid moving packages for someone older.
Every step Waza took reminded him of something: he didn't belong here yet. He wasn't a part of these networks. But he could see the threads. And threads, when pulled carefully, could reveal the whole fabric.
He paused on a corner, notebook open, pen hovering. For a moment, he allowed himself a small smile. Observing was different from participating. He could stay safe here, silent, lonely but learning. That was enough for now.
A car rolled past, tinted windows reflecting the morning light. Waza's gaze followed it, sharp. Whoever was inside held power, even without stepping out. Money, influence, fear all bundled together. The city whispered its secrets, and he was listening.
For Waza, that was the game not the fighting yet, not the supernatural, not even the stakes of life and death. For now, the game was watching, understanding, and surviving.
The hum in his veins, faint as ever, reminded him that there was more waiting something bigger, something deeper. But for today, he stayed here, quiet, alone, observing the city that pulsed beneath him.