The gang reluctantly shells out a handful of coins each to Montague, with the exception of Fassn. “This dirt, these smells, they’re a part of me! They’re, like, part of the experience.”
Cang sniffs. “Typical.”
Fassn lays himself out on the floor with a cloth over his face, breathing deeply, slowly, contented, while his companions strip down.
“It’s been an age since I’ve had these clothes laundered,” Shyan says. “We should’ve just bitten the bullet in the first place.”
Cang squints at her. “Bitten the what?”
Logan Bright — Works 