The city streets hummed with life, a chaotic symphony of honking cabs, chattering crowds, and the rhythmic clatter of a distant street performer's drum.
The afternoon's sun spilled golden light across the pavement, warming the air, thick with the scents of roasted chestnuts and exhaust.
Freya and Kael stepped out on the city streets, her cap pulled low, masking her forehead and eyes, the face mask covered her mouth.
Her white blouse and black jeans hugged her curves, her regenerated skin flawless, no trace of the fight's bruises, her blue eyes sparkling with a child's glee at the urban sprawl.
Kael walked beside her, his dark jacket unzipped, his hazel eyes scanning the crowd, alert but softened by her energy.
Freya's gaze snagged on a street vendor's stall, a riot of hats—fedora, berets, wide-brimmed sunhats—displayed on a rickety table.
