The morning hit different. The city's noise wasn't just traffic — it was the pulse of something rising, something that had Waza's name written on it.
He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that boy's faint smile from the night before. "You can't do it alone."
He didn't want to admit it, but the words stuck.
He left home early, hoodie up, headphones silent. The street vendors were already calling prices, the wind carried the smell of fried oil and exhaust, and the world moved like it didn't care who survived — only who adapted.
Then, at the edge of Daven Street, he saw her.
A girl leaned against a motorbike, one foot on the curb, helmet in hand. Her hair shimmered like metal under the light, silver at the tips. Her eyes were cold — not the kind that looked through you, but into you.
"Waza," she said, her tone calm, almost bored.
He stopped mid-step. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet," she said, smirking. "But you've been noticed."
"By who?"
She glanced down the street, where a black sedan rolled slowly past. "People who see potential in chaos. People who think you're ready."
He frowned. "And you?"
She smiled faintly. "I think you're too calm for someone being hunted."
Waza's jaw tightened. "You don't look scared either."
"I'm never scared," she replied. "I'm Silver."
The name hit him. Rumors had floated around — a girl who rode alone, knew things she shouldn't, and worked for no one. If she was here, then the city's quiet wars were already shifting.
Before he could reply, a shadow moved across the wall behind her — another figure stepping out from the alley.
This one was a boy, lean, with hair shaved on one side and a black band around his wrist. He walked like someone who'd seen too many fights and survived all of them.
"Silver," he said coolly. "You bringing strays again?"
Waza's eyes narrowed. "You got a problem?"
The boy chuckled. "Only with amateurs."
"Enough," Silver said, sliding her helmet onto the bike. "Rex, he's with me."
"With you?" Rex raised an eyebrow. "That's new. You don't usually babysit."
"Maybe I'm bored," she shot back. Then to Waza: "If you're serious about surviving here, you'll come with us. There's someone you need to meet."
"Who?" Waza asked.
Silver revved the bike once, eyes flicking to him. "The one who decides who gets to play."
The street fell quiet. The city seemed to hold its breath.
Waza didn't know what waited at the end of this road — but something in him, the same voice that had carried him through fights and nights of silence, whispered that this was how it had to begin.
He swung his leg over the bike behind her. Rex walked ahead, scanning every corner like a hawk.
As they rode off, the skyline loomed — sharp towers cutting through the smoke and sun, like blades waiting to fall.
And for the first time, Waza didn't just feel alive.
He felt chosen.