The Bakasa market was exactly as it had always been.
When Dayat first set foot in this city, the coal smoke and the pungent stench of trash heaps lining the streets had nearly made him choke. Now? The smell remained the same. Perhaps even worse. But he no longer cared.
Dayat walked through the crowd with steady strides, his hood obscuring almost his entire face. Dola followed beside him, occasionally brushing his arm to ensure they weren't separated. Her slender frame was hidden beneath a drab, dusty cloak she had intentionally chosen—not her old white cape, nor her futuristic bodysuit. Now, she was just one of the dozens of hooded travelers crowding the market.
"What was the first thing you said when you saw this market?" Dola asked softly, her eyes observing a merchant selling hanging meat to their left.
Dayat smiled thinly beneath his hood. "I said, 'Why does it smell like a wet market mixed with a tofu factory?'"
"And I replied, 'Sir Dayat must adapt.'"
