He is not so deep into his curse that he pays no mind to his surroundings. There is a brief commotion from behind and off towards an alleyway, and Ozpin turns. He cannot catch the scent from here, not among so many people and so many shades of blood— but he thinks he catches a familiar flash of movement, a loping shift of movement that feels like something he knows.

Ozpin watches for a long moment after it. Long enough to lose the trail.

It's for the best.

Lingering here shall come to no good. Perhaps it would be better to spend his night pacing among the few shops still open in Willful Machine, wondering at the rumors of bottled Darkblood.

As the crowd calms and resumes its usual flow, Ozpin slips away.