Countless bare winter spruce trees stood stiffly like the legs of a centipede's corpse, pointing straight up to the night sky, while sparse streetlights could only illuminate the brownish-yellow dirt, the air permeated with a sweet and fishy scent mixed with the smell of earth.
"Where is this place?"
Igula glanced at his boots, now covered with marks from the ravages of the mud; the soles of the boots, on their first day of use, were already sentenced to death.
Not just the Swindler, now everyone had changed into a set of clothes—at Hanna's request—they were all wearing thick leather coats, donning full-coverage filter masks, and walking in a quiet, deserted forest; anyone would believe they were committing a crime.
"Forest park."
"Miss, no offense, but what I mean is—why are we here, instead of just leaving Vatican Mura?"
