New York. Morning.
The city moved like it always did—loud, restless, blind to anything that wasn't on its schedule. Rush hour had taken over the streets like a hungry god, taxis honking like war drums, Wall Street suits charging down sidewalks with half-eaten bagels and five-year plans in their heads. No one noticed the building on the corner of Varick and Barclay—the one with mirrored glass and a corporate name slapped across the front in bold silver letters: Citaeus Bank.
And absolutely no one noticed the boy crouched beneath its shadow.
He stood pressed into the building's shade like he was born of it—his presence thin, weightless, impossible to spot unless you already knew he was there. He didn't breathe. Didn't blink. He watched. From across the street, eyes low under a dusty hoodie, skin shadowed by more than just sunlight.
