WE ARE WHAT THEY EAT
We are what they eat

Banjo was through with his daily task, took a hot shower and stepped out of the palace's large gate.

Due to the rain that had been drizzling since morning, the gaunt-looking mafia was dressed in a sweater with a hood and hopped over puddles of water that fell from the sky.

All around him were filled with fog, and he walked for a while, peered into the unseen distance, and then halted.

After looking wearily for a while, he knelt on one leg, and a pistol immediately materialized in his hand.

A second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

The mafia remained immobile with ears raised and eyes darting and he was about to pull the trigger when someone announced from the haze.

"Hey, Banjo. We are from the merchants. Lower your gun."

"Why hidden under the fog if you are not here for evil purposes? Stepped out now."

"Two overly dressed guards stepped out of the trees where they had been hidden, and their physical appearance became noticeable as they wobble closer to Banjo.

Apa
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