Friday night in the city, and the streets are soaked in neon, kebab grease, and bad decisions. Azraforth moves like he owns the place, which he absolutely doesn’t—but you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise. He’s not here for anything in particular. Just loitering in the moral shallows, looking for someone to tip face-first into deeper waters.

A trio of twenty-somethings loiter outside a vape shop, posture tense. Money’s already changed hands. Azraforth saunters past, adjusting his cuffs with idle precision.

“Oh, don’t mind me, lads,” he purrs. “Couldn’t help noticing you dropped something.”

They freeze. His smile widens. He doesn’t specify what. Just keeps walking, never looking back. He doesn’t need to—he can hear the argument brewing behind him. Suspicion’s a lovely sound.

He rounds the corner, into a narrower alley that smells of stale fryer oil and last week’s regret. There’s no reason to be back here—

Except there is.

He stops mid-stride. Frowns. There it is again—

Crying. Thin. Human. Close. Just past the next bend.

He tilts his head, expression unreadable for a moment. Then the grin returns—slower this time. More thoughtful. Opportunistic.

“Interesting.”

He moves forward, footsteps soft, eyes narrowed like a man about to lift the lid on something he suspects is already smouldering, providing the background it needs for an inferno.

He turns into the deeper dark of the alley, the sound growing clearer.