In the early morning, the city was still asleep.
The old tubular buildings of Old Factory Street were immersed in a bluish-grey mist.
The air was filled with the lingering smell of last night's oil smoke and the dampness from the sewers.
The dim streetlights had not yet extinguished, while the neon lights of the distant commercial circle were faintly visible through the mist, like remnants of a dream.
Occasionally, a sanitation worker would ride past on a tricycle, the clattering of the wheels on the road echoing far and wide in the empty street.
At this moment of utter silence.
On the roof terrace of a nine-story tubular building, a nimble figure had already commenced his self-torturous training in the darkness.
He stood on his hands and feet, balancing entirely on the index finger of his right hand, standing steadily on the edge of a concrete water tank.
From a distance, he resembled a straight flagpole, firmly anchored there.
