In the hues of early dusk, the vendors whisper, their stalls loaded with shadows and veiled truths. A conspiracy of tongues, wrapped in linen and lies.
They say, in the corners where light refracts oddly, that every transaction seeds doubt, and wakes the watchers in the unseen alleys.
The perfumes of paranoia linger in the air, each breath a contract unspoken, each glance a prophecy fulfilled.