Nighttime. DARK TOWN
The small room felt cold and stuffy. Its rough stone walls were always damp, and the faint smell of moss and sewer water permeated the air. The only light source was a small oil lantern on a rickety wooden table. Its flickering light was just enough to illuminate Fyar and his reflection in a basin of murky water.
Fyar sat on a wooden stool, his upper body bare. Several new, clean bandages wrapped the wounds on his shoulder and arms, remnants of the hunt in the alley. He was stirring a thick black liquid in a small ceramic bowl with a brush. The sharp chemical smell of the liquid stung his nose.
He began to apply the liquid to his purple hair, strand by strand, with a calm, methodical motion.
I already anticipated this scenario, Fyar thought as he continued to apply the dye, the brush feeling cold on his scalp. Luckily, I stayed up to prepare dozens of backup plans. Sometimes, ah... being paranoid is good.
