The morning light barely touched the lower streets of Glora. Rain from the night before had left puddles that reflected the neon signs from the night prior, as if the city carried its own memory.
Waza moved carefully, keeping to the edges. He had learned long ago that power in Glora wasn't always loud; sometimes it was measured in who didn't speak, who didn't move, who simply existed in the right place at the right time.
At the corner of Marrow Street, he noticed a small crowd around a man in a crisp suit, though the streets around him smelled of smoke and fried food. Waza tilted his head, reading the posture of the people, the way they shifted. Respect, fear, or maybe both. The man's name on whispered lips was Orin. Money, influence, and quiet authority all rolled into one.
A group of kids ran past, dodging puddles, and Waza followed with his eyes, noticing how each neighborhood had its rhythm. A gang's graffiti on the wall marked territory, but Orin's influence was subtler he didn't need marks. He had people. Networks. Reach.
Waza paused at a narrow alley, spotting a woman leaning against the wall, notebook in hand. She scribbled quickly, her eyes darting constantly. Observation mirrored observation. A quiet smile crept across his face. Maybe she was like him, watching, learning, noting.
The city of Glora moved around him, alive and layered. Every street, every shadow held a story. He didn't need to touch it yet. Not now. Not until he understood the players, the stakes, and the flow of energy that ran beneath their feet.
From above, a familiar hum pulsed in his veins. The Vein or whatever it was reminded him that he was connected, that he wasn't just watching. He was part of something larger. Something waiting to test him.
For now, Waza stayed silent. He kept his distance. He noted faces, names, locations. He listened to the city. And Glora… Glora whispered back.