The world had turned on its axis. The mockery of Tunde and Femi no longer rang in his head as rebuke, but as fuel. Their scorn had been coaxed through the System and converted into Resolve, cold hard cash of will that now supported his every step. He patrolled the city not as a ghost but as an inspector in hostile lands, senses on edge, Analysis talent a steady, subconscious hum in his mind.
His "home" under the bridge had become less of a shelter of hopelessness and more of a forward operating base. It was there, in the darkest before-dawn, that he made his inventory. Not of possessions—he had none—but of himself. Stamina: 6. Resolve: 11. The numbers were a mantra. He was no longer just Elian; he was a work in progress.
The quest for an "honest meal" had turned into a daily survival rou
