The shelter was alive.
Busy.
Noisy.
Voices overlapped.
Trades.
Deals.
Movement everywhere.
Han Chandu walked through it.
Covered in armor.
Dark.
Featureless.
No one recognized him.
No one could.
He moved without hesitation.
Straight.
Purposeful.
A quiet corner.
Away from the main crowd.
He stopped.
Placed the meat.
Fresh.
Heavy.
Dense.
The scent spread quickly.
Heads turned.
Eyes shifted.
People gathered.
"…that smell…"
"…sacred…"
"…lion type…"
"…rare…"
Han Chandu said nothing.
Didn't respond.
Didn't acknowledge.
Only stood there.
Silent.
Someone stepped forward.
Careful.
Measured.
"…how much?"
No answer.
Han Chandu raised a hand slightly.
Signaled.
A price.
Simple.
Clear.
Not low.
Not excessive.
Fair.
A pause.
Then—
Agreement.
The first trade happened.
Quick.
Clean.
More stepped forward.
One after another.
No bargaining.
No conflict.
Because they understood.
This wasn't ordinary.
Piece by piece—
The meat disappeared.
Credits changed hands.
Silently.
No names exchanged.
No identities revealed.
Only value.
Within minutes—
Nothing remained.
The space emptied.
But whispers stayed.
"…who was that…"
"…never seen before…"
"…that armor…"
Han Chandu didn't react.
Because those words—
Didn't matter.
He turned.
Walked away.
No one followed.
No one stopped him.
Because in this place—
Questions—
Were dangerous.
He moved deeper into the shelter.
Away from the noise.
Away from attention.
A quieter section.
Less crowded.
Still.
He stopped.
For a moment.
The armor dissolved.
Piece by piece.
Dark layers fading.
Until—
Nothing remained.
Han Chandu stood there.
Normal.
Unnoticed.
As if the figure from before—
Had never existed.
He continued walking.
Blending in.
No trace.
No memory.
Because identity—
Was a weakness.
And he had none.
Time passed.