The capital wakes slowly.

Paper lanterns sway above narrow streets as shopkeepers lift shutters and the scent of steamed rice and incense drifts through the morning air. Somewhere nearby, a shamisen plays, soft, practiced, almost melancholic.

At the edge of the district, a geisha house opens its doors.

Orobi steps outside, her movements graceful and deliberate, kimono immaculate, hair arranged in a style that takes hours to perfect. She lowers her gaze politely as townsfolk pass, her expression serene, unreadable. To Wano, she is simply another woman training for favor in a dangerous court.

No one here knows she arrived only a week ago.

No one knows the name she once carried.

Later, in the shade of a narrow alley, a ronin rests against a wall, hat pulled low. A traveling salesman loudly advertises miracle oil to a skeptical crowd. Somewhere else, the rhythmic thud of wood against wood echoes from a workshop where a young carpenter works longer hours than required.

They live normal lives now.

Orobi pauses briefly at a crossroads, folding her sleeves together as she watches the city move around her, the smiles, the fear, the quiet oppression beneath it all. Her eyes linger just a moment too long on a familiar silhouette in the distance before she turns away, blending back into the flow of Wano’s capital.

For now, survival comes before action.

For now, they wait.