The morning in Osaka arrived the way Osaka mornings always arrived.
Without drama. With purpose.
The streets were already moving by seven. Not the frantic movement of cities that hadn't decided what they were yet — Osaka moved with the specific confidence of a place that knew its own architecture, its own pace, the rhythm of its own particular kind of life.
The morning shift of the fish market three blocks over was already done.
The elementary school two streets east was already audible. The vending machines on every corner hummed steadily against the cool air.
Along the narrow street near the Namba district's edge, a woman walked.
Taekwondo uniform.
White, clean, the cuffs rolled twice at the wrist because she'd never found a cut that fit her arms properly.
