The shop was a beehive of activity. A steady stream of customers flowed in with hungry eyes and flowed out with satisfied smiles, clutching parcels of steaming cakes.
Hei and Bai surged toward it in top speed.
At the front of the shop, standing behind a counter dusted with flour, was our old acquaintance, Wan.
Wan had clearly been through some things since our last meeting. Taking a page from the book of "People Who Don't Want to be Murdered," he was now wearing a thick fabric mask to conceal his face.
Personally, I don't think it helped much.
If you're the only guy in town making cakes that smell like heaven while acting like a nervous wreck waiting to be caught for crime, people are going to remember you.
And his physical appearance wasn't what you call an "average build" to simply be able to blend into the public.
He probably should have left the province entirely, but the man had bills to pay and a recipe that was essentially a license to print money.
