The outside is warm, humid. The weather on the distant horizon is grey, threatening incoming storms with gentle rumbles over isolated mountains. The people in the area shroud a large market place, their dirty fingers handing off coins for trinkets and trinkets for food. They wear clothes stained with dirt, some torn and tattered, others more put together but by the bare minimum. The smell is unavoidable, not only of oil and fumes, but of grime and unwashed body parts.
He mills about behind her, keeping his appendages close to himself, as if he were walking in an open caged zoo. Compared to the people of the district, he sticks out like a bloodied rag in a basket full of clean linen. His hair is golden, washed and perfectly cut to frame his clear face, of which hosts a disgusted, crimson gaze. The bridge of his nose wrinkles as he walks, shooting looks of repulsion at every sight he’s disgraced with witnessing. Hands in pockets of a freshly made designer jacket, he avoids accidentally touching anything, figuring that if he did, he might drop dead in an instant from how contaminated everything appeared.
“Your parents are idiots to give you permission coming here.” He starts, flat in tone. “Do you see these people? They’re sick. District 12 should be demolished.”
