'What the fuck...'
Viktor walked forward toward a cluster of people near a broken stall. They were whispering among themselves, their voices low and suspicious.
The moment they saw him—saw his clean clothes, his well-fed frame, his noble bearing—they scattered like rats, vanishing into the shadows between huts with surprising speed for people who looked half-dead.
All except one.
An old woman sat slumped against a crumbling wall, her body so thin and frail she seemed like little more than bones held together by papery skin.
Her hands trembled constantly, either from palsy or starvation or both, making them shake like leaves in a strong wind.
Fresh blood seeped from a wound on her palm where she'd apparently fallen, mixing with the dirt crusted on her skin.
Viktor paused for a moment, looking at her state, and realized one thing: he would go insane in this place if not for his women.
