Morning heat shimmered over Tete.The Café do Mercado buzzed with voices and frying oil, the smell of grilled milho thick in the air.
Jabari sat at a corner table, eyes fixed on the door.Kwame joined him, calm but wary.
"You sure about this?" he asked.
"No," Jabari said. "But someone still remembers his name. That's enough."
A man entered—lean, cap low, eyes sharp.He walked straight to them. "You're Jabari?"
He didn't wait for an answer before sitting."Name's Daniel. I knew Enzo—at least, the version that stayed."
Kwame frowned. "What version?"
Daniel's tone was matter-of-fact. "The one who learned how Tete really works. The boy you lost? He's gone. This city doesn't raise dreamers—it eats them."
Jabari's throat tightened. "Then where is he?"
Daniel slid a folded note across the table. "If you want to find him, start here."
One word, black ink bleeding into the paper:
Arena.
Kwame went still. "That place's bad news. Street matches. Bets. People vanish."
Daniel stood, tucking his cap lower. "You wanted truth. Remember—sometimes it's not what you hoped for."
He left them with the market's clamor filling the silence.
Jabari clenched the note in his hand."Arena or not," he said, "if Enzo's there, that's where we'll go."
Kwame's reply was quiet. "Then let's hope the Enzo we find isn't the one this city made."