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Oh, and the smells—gods, the smells! Sometimes it’s lavender, all posh-like, sometimes it’s rancid oil that’s been sittin’ too long. I’d rather sniff a dead direwolf. And the slang they use? “Happy ending”—pfft, more like “happy robbery” when they nick your coin. Still, I reckon it’s a craft, sorta. Takes skill to not cross that line—or to cross it so smooth you don’t care.

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But then, just when I think I can breathe, I get a call. “Hey, we need you at the market on Fő utca!” I’m like, “Seriously? Right now?” But I can’t say no. So, I hustle over there, and it’s packed! People everywhere, buying veggies and stuff.