The city never slept. It only switched faces.
At night, it was gold and grime — beauty balanced on chaos.
Waza sat behind Silver on her bike as they rode through the veins of the city.
The air hit his face sharp and cold, carrying the pulse of sirens and engines. Neon lights bled across his eyes like electric veins, each flash whispering the same truth — he was no longer on the outside looking in.
They rode through side streets most people avoided. A turn here, a broken fence there, and the sound of civilization faded into low thunder.
Finally, they stopped at a building that looked abandoned from the outside, but the faint hum from below said otherwise.
Spray-painted in thick silver letters across the wall were the words:
"No Kings, Only Players."
Silver dismounted smoothly, tossing her helmet aside. "This is where you stop being an observer," she said.
"Thought I stopped being that last night," Waza replied, pulling his hood back.
Silver smirked. "You survived last night. That's not the same thing."
They stepped through the doorway. Inside was another world — low red lights, the smell of oil, old smoke, and sweat. The floor was marked with chalk symbols, and screens glowed from corners where people watched unseen feeds.
Rex appeared from the shadows, hands in pockets, grin in place. "You sure about this one, Silver? He looks like he's still trying to understand where he is."
"He'll learn," she said. "Or he won't."
"Fair enough," Rex muttered.
A slow clap echoed from the far end of the room. The crowd parted.
A man in black stepped forward — calm, steady, and dangerous in that quiet way power always is. His voice carried like it didn't need to shout to be heard.
"Waza," he said. "You're late."
"I wasn't invited," Waza answered, meeting his eyes.
The man gave a small, knowing smile. "Everyone who matters is invited. I'm Kane — and I decide who plays the Game."
He moved closer, circling Waza like a lion assessing a new cub. "Street name, huh?" he said. "Every fighter, every thief, every ghost has one. But in here… names mean something else."
Waza kept still, feeling every eye on him.
Kane stopped in front of him. "You're entering a world that feeds on identity, reputation, energy. If you want to live, you'll need a name that doesn't just echo — it strikes."
He let the silence hang for a second, then said, "From this point on, forget the name Waza. That belongs to the streets.
You're Azen now. The city will remember Azen."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Silver crossed her arms and smirked. "Azen, huh? Has a bite to it."
Rex tilted his head. "Means 'silent storm' in some tongues. Fitting."
Waza — Azen now — rolled the name in his mind. It felt strange, but alive. Like a coat of power he hadn't earned yet but soon would.
Kane smiled faintly, as if reading his thoughts. "Names are like blades. Useless if you don't wield them right. Let's see if you can make yours cut."
He stepped back. "The city has been watching you, Azen. You've got instincts. But instincts alone don't survive the Game. They drown in it.
You'll learn rules, codes, debts, and silence. Because here, silence speaks louder than truth."
Silver looked at Azen, eyes sharp. "Ready for your first proof?"
"Proof?"
Kane's smile widened. "A test. Every player who enters the Game must survive it — body, mind, and energy."
The lights dimmed. The hum of the building shifted into a low, deep vibration. Azen's chest tightened as a wave of static filled the air, crawling across his skin.
"What is this?" he asked, steadying himself.
Kane's eyes gleamed. "The beginning of your awakening."
And with that, the lights went out completely.