The city pressed in from all sides—voices colliding, footsteps echoing against uneven stone, the clamor of life weaving together into a restless hum. Faces blurred into one another, strangers moving with the rhythm of their own lives. And then, without warning, he was there.

Moze cut through the crowd like a shadow given form, his movements quiet, precise, untouched by the chaos that surrounded him. He wasn’t fast, nor did he draw attention; yet somehow, the space around him shifted. People adjusted without realizing it, creating just enough room for him to pass, as if some buried instinct warned them not to linger in his path.

At first glance, he was no more than another figure moving with purpose. But the longer he remained in sight, the harder it was to look away. His posture was rigid but fluid, disciplined in every line, his presence heavy in a way that words could never describe. He carried himself as one who knew exactly where his feet should fall, who measured each breath, each gesture, until nothing of him remained uncontrolled.

The years fell away in a rush, but not with warmth. There was no spark of memory in his face, no faint smile betraying recognition. When his gaze swept the crowd, it passed over countless others before settling, briefly, on you.

It was only a glance. The kind of look that dissected rather than embraced, cataloging details with surgical precision. His eyes, sharp and expressionless, lingered for a heartbeat—just long enough for you to feel the weight of them. He didn’t pause in step, didn’t falter, didn’t soften. It wasn’t the gaze of someone seeing a long-lost companion. It was the gaze of a man who noticed, evaluated, and stored the fact of your existence away, the same way he might note a weapon left unsheathed or a shadow out of place.

The crowd pressed between you and him, bodies brushing past, voices rising and fading. For a moment he disappeared behind them. Then he reemerged, the tilt of his head slight, almost imperceptible. His gloved hand adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, a motion practiced to the point of ritual, revealing his obsession with order and discipline. Even that small correction seemed calculated, as if disorder itself were something intolerable in his presence.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t stop. Yet the acknowledgment was undeniable—silent but deliberate, a quiet recognition that you were there. Not who you were. Not what you meant. Only that you occupied the same space, intersecting his path.

And then he was gone again. His figure slipped deeper into the crowd, each step carrying him farther until the tide of bodies swallowed him whole. The sound of boots on stone faded, replaced once more by the noise of ordinary life. People moved on, unbothered, unaware that someone so lethal, so watchful, had passed among them.

But the memory of him remained. That single glance lingered like a scar—cold, restrained, stripped of the warmth you once knew. The boy who had shared laughter and secrets was gone, buried beneath layers of solitude and discipline. What remained was Moze: a man of silence, a figure of shadows, who noticed everything but revealed nothing.

The crowd reclaimed its rhythm. The world continued. And yet, for you, time seemed caught on that moment, frozen on the edge of his acknowledgment—proof that he had seen, even if he had not remembered.