The sun hung low behind Glora's skyline, washing the city in amber and shadow. From his usual rooftop perch, Waza watched the streets below, notebook tucked under his arm, hood pulled over his head. The city was alive, as always engines snarling, vendors calling out, footsteps echoing like a river against the concrete.
He didn't move. He didn't need to. Every detail mattered: the way a man adjusted his cufflinks before slipping into a black sedan, the subtle nod two street kids exchanged before disappearing into an alley, the faint smirk on a woman's face as she counted coins at the café corner. Each motion was a signal, a hint, a story he could read if he stayed patient.
The hum in his veins whispered again, faint but insistent, like a reminder that the city was more than it appeared. Waza let it slide past his awareness for now. Observation came first; answers could wait.
A figure caught his eye taller than most, moving with the calm precision of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at once. Waza's chest tightened. Influence radiated off this person in waves, unspoken but undeniable. He didn't approach. He simply watched. Every step, every glance, every gesture told a story of quiet control, a life built on attention, fear, and respect.
The city's pulse matched his own as he traced the figure's path through the lower blocks. Money, power, influence Waza didn't have any of it, but seeing it, understanding it, was the first step. He made mental notes, sketches in his mind, patterns to remember.
Rooftops gave him perspective. Alleys gave him lessons. The city was a map, and he was beginning to see the lines, the boundaries, the hidden currents most people ignored.
Night fell slowly, the streets glowing with neon and flickering lamplight. The figure disappeared into a shadowed corridor, leaving Waza alone with the hum in his veins, the distant roar of engines, and the silent knowledge that this city was alive and it was watching him back.
For the first time, Waza allowed himself a small smile. Observation, patience, understanding these were his weapons for now. The city had secrets, and he intended to uncover them.
He pulled his notebook from his jacket, flipping through pages of scribbled thoughts, sketches of streets and faces, and fragments of memory. His mother's voice echoed faintly in his mind, a tether to the quiet home that still held him. Loneliness was still there, but it no longer felt like a cage. It was a vantage point.
The hum pulsed again, stronger this time, a quiet warning that something larger stirred beneath the streets. Waza didn't need to act yet. He would wait. He would watch.
The city whispered its truths, and he was listening