So only an hour had passed since the tattooed man's fist had knocked him out cold. [b]“Interesting,”[/b] Matteo muttered. His fingers explored the smooth, unbroken canvas of his newly-healed face again. The fight had been so intense, and sudden. It would almost be easy to forget it had happened at all. A nightmare of blows and falls and a merciless, unyielding mob of onlookers in the plaza square, ringing them in a mob of ugly noise. He had never in his life expected to be put in that kind of situation.

He thought he hadn’t, anyway.

The dark-haired young man sat up slowly and the faces around him came more into focus. [b]“Aoi, that’s you, isn’t it? I assume you’re all right.”[/b] Once the crowd had sealed him and Old Bear in, she should have had the chance to get away. The people had no interest in what had caused their conflict, only its resolution. Matteo sighed and lifted a finger to adjust his glasses and poked himself between the eyes instead. [b]“I’m not sure,”[/b] he admitted in response to Ash’s question. [i]Well, in the short-term...[/i]

His gaze shifted to his surroundings-- he was not the only person stretched out on a hard wooden pew. There were many others here, swaddled in ragged clothing still more practical than what the three newcomers wore. Matteo cleared his throat, turning towards the priest. [b]“Sir, I don’t suppose we could rest here for the night.”[/b] Uncomfortable as the benches were, this place-- this church-- felt safe. Going out into the night again, searching for somewhere to stay in this foreign place, sounded exhausting. And Matteo was exhausted already. His hour spent unconscious didn’t exactly count as a nap.