The night had grown heavy over Glora, the kind of darkness that pressed against the edges of the mind. Waza walked through the alleys with Selene beside him, her presence almost tangible, like a faint echo of heat against the cold stone walls. She wasn't just company she was an extension of observation itself, a mirror of caution and instinct.
"Do you ever wonder," Selene asked quietly, "why some people see you, and some… don't?"
Waza didn't answer at once. He was studying the patterns of the street, the way the streetlamps cast shadows that flickered like sentinels. Her question wasn't idle it was testing, probing, and he felt it.
"Some choose not to," he said finally. "Others are forced to. Attention… it's a currency."
Selene's lips curved slightly, almost a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "And some pay more than they can afford."
Waza felt the weight in her words. More than anyone, she understood consequence without explanation. He noted the small gestures how she lingered near open doors, how her eyes caught every reflection, every glimmer. She moved like the city itself: fluid, cautious, aware.
He wanted to ask who she really was, what she wanted, why she followed him with such precision. But questions like that were dangerous. Even Selene, beautiful and sharp, was a variable in this city, one he could not fully predict.
As they passed an abandoned square, Waza paused. Something was different. The hum in his veins pulsed stronger, not threatening, but insistent. Selene noticed it too. She tilted her head, letting her gaze linger on him, and Waza felt a faint shock of understanding: she didn't just accompany him; she responded to the pulse of his being, to the rhythm of his focus, to the stirrings of the Vein he still barely understood.
"You're preparing," she said softly, as if reading his unspoken thought.
Waza nodded. Preparation had nothing to do with leaving yet. It had everything to do with understanding the cost of being seen, of acting, of existing in a city that watched.
Selene took a step closer, and her hand brushed his arm not in affection, not in intimacy, but as a tether. A reminder that in a world of consequences, alliances, and observation, one misstep could be fatal.
Waza wrote again in his notebook:
"She is reflection and mirror, question and answer. Not trust, not yet. But consequence acknowledges presence."
The square stretched empty before them. Beyond it, the city breathed and waited. Somewhere in the shadows, Waza knew the Mysterious Stranger still watched. Somewhere, the hum waited for action. And somewhere Selene waited, in her subtle, unseen way, the first variable he could almost call… necessary.
For the first time in days, Waza felt the weight of choice not obligation, not instinct, but the subtle gravity of consequence. And the city of Glora seemed to hum along with him.