London, Tower Hamlets.
Dusk had arrived, and the setting sun cast its glow on the yellowish wastewater flowing from the tannery, gilding it with a golden edge that stretched to the horizon, giving the illusion of a road of gold leading to the heavens.
As night gradually fell, the little taverns in the brick alleys of Whitechapel began to buzz with life.
They were packed with merchant sailors seeking fun, dockworkers, or the brick kiln stokers from nearby brickworks, among others.
The air was thick with the sour stench of sweat, the steam from freshly baked food, and the sounds of rowdy patrons boasting and beer glasses clinking, interspersed with the occasional angry retorts of the female servers being harassed.
The female server pointed at the sailor's nose and cursed loudly, "You uncultured beast! Dare to pinch me again, and see if I don't chop off your hand!"