Ren didn't know where to go.
The air still smelled like spice and shame.
His shoes squelched in a way that shouldn't be legal.
The crowd had mostly dispersed — except the trauma. That lingered.
He walked fast, head low, cloak dragging behind him like a corpse he forgot to bury.
And then—
A voice.
Soft. Simple. Kind.
??? (gently):
"Hey. You need a clean pair of pants and some threadless dignity?"
Ren froze.
Turned.
A woman stood near the edge of the plaza — holding a folded set of clothes in one hand, and a steaming mug of something not soup in the other.
Mid-thirties, auburn hair tied back in a messy bun, sleeves rolled up, measuring tape hanging from her neck.
She looked like someone who'd help you fix your shirt while insulting your posture.
REN (awkward):
"...Do I look that bad?"
??? (deadpan):
"You look like someone who lost a fight to broth."
Ren blinked.
Then nodded slowly.
REN:
"Okay. Fair."
He took the clothes — soft, fresh, clean. Earth tones. Tunic. Loose boots. A cloak that didn't smell like death.
He hesitated for a second.
REN (quiet):
"…Thank you."
??? (smiling, casual):
"Name's Marra. Tailor.
Shop's just down Ironhook Street. People call me Mistress Weaver, but that's just branding. I mostly fix ripped pants and make cloaks that don't blow away in high wind."
REN (half-grinning):
"Is this part of your charity program for soup victims?"
MARRA:
"Nope. This is me being a decent person.
Which is rare in this city. So don't ruin it."
She turned. Walked.
Didn't wait for him to follow.
But Ren did.
Because where the hell else was he gonna go?
As they reached her shop — a cozy little building stitched into the corner of a market row — Ren glanced back toward the plaza.
The whispers were fading.
The shame… still lingered. But the clean clothes helped.
REN (muttering):
"Thanks, Marra."
MARRA (already unlocking her door):
"Don't mention it. Seriously. Don't. People already assume I'm soft."
She opened the door.
MARRA (grinning):
"Now get inside. You stink like trauma and chili oil."