The city of Glora was quiet in the early morning, but not empty. Its streets carried a murmur soft, almost musical, the kind that only a trained ear could notice. Waza moved through it like a shadow, barefoot against the cracked pavement, his notebook tucked under one arm. Every step was deliberate, measured, as though the concrete could betray his presence if misread.
For the first time in days, he felt eyes lingering. Not the casual glance of strangers, but the deliberate, calculating watch of someone who knew his type. He paused at the corner of Westmere and Kline, tilted his head, and let the city speak. The hum in his veins pulsed faintly a slow reminder that movement and silence were inseparable.
Selene walked beside him, quiet as always, though her presence was like a subtle tremor in the calm. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. She merely observed, letting Waza read her posture as he read the city.
"They're watching," she said at last, her voice low, deliberate. "Not all of them openly. Some just… follow the pattern."
Waza didn't answer immediately. He studied the corner shop, the man sweeping the steps, the distant clatter of a delivery cart. None of these were threats, not yet but the texture of attention had changed.
His path was no longer just his. Routes he had taken without notice now seemed narrower, the familiar alleys slightly altered. And the small market near the canal once a place where no one minded him was now subtly unavailable. The stallholders avoided eye contact, moved quickly, pretending he wasn't there.
He scribbled a note in his notebook:
"Visibility carries weight. I move, I am noticed. Silence is stolen piece by piece."
Selene's hand brushed his briefly as they crossed the market, a light touch that carried a question without words. Waza glanced at her, and in that fleeting connection, he saw the reflection of himself: cautious, alert, calculating every consequence.
A figure appeared across the street. Casual, deliberate. Observing without revealing too much. Waza's pulse shifted. He didn't know if it was coincidence, or the city responding to his presence. The Vein in his wrist pulsed faintly, synchronized to his heartbeat, and he felt the old question return: Is leaving the city the only choice, or is action still mine here?
He slowed, letting the figure fade from view. The city had begun to close its ranks not with violence, not yet but with attention, measurement, and quiet constraints. Every step now required calculation, every encounter carried unspoken consequence.
Selene's eyes met his briefly. She didn't speak, but in that look was confirmation: the city's rhythm had changed. The game was moving. He would either adapt or be marked.
And Waza, as always, was watching.