Malachai chose the farmers market because it was inefficient.
That mattered.
Centralized supply chains optimized for scale. Markets optimized for people. For conversations that drifted. For prices that varied stall to stall because trust, weather, and fatigue were variables no algorithm fully captured.
He walked slowly, coat plain, mask on—not concealed, not announced. Just present.
Tomatoes first.
He stopped at one stall, examined the produce, nodded, then crossed the aisle to another. Same variety. Different sheen. Different smell. He asked the price. Listened. Asked about yield. About soil. About rain last week.
He thanked them both.
Bought from the second.
---
People noticed.
They always did.
Whispers followed him like a second shadow.
That's him.
Don't stare.
He's just… shopping?
A vendor offered him a discount without thinking, then flushed and apologized. Malachai declined with a polite shake of his head and paid full price.
"Fair value matters," he said.
The vendor blinked, nodded, and later told everyone within earshot.
---
He moved on to honey.
Stopped. Compared jars. Asked about clover versus wildflower. About hive health. About how many jars a good season yielded versus a bad one.
He bought two.
One for use.
One to give away.
---
A teenager threw a bruised apple.
It struck his shoulder and dropped to the ground.
No magic flared.
No guards moved.
No heads rolled.
Malachai paused only long enough to ensure no one else was hurt by the throw. Then he stepped around the apple and continued walking.
The stall owner went pale. "Sir, I—"
"It's fine," Malachai said, calm. "Your apples are priced competitively. I will take four."
The owner stared.
Malachai paid.
---
The second object was softer—a handful of herbs, flung more in anger than aim. They scattered at his feet.
"Monster!" someone shouted. "Murderer!"
Malachai did not look toward the voice.
He bent, gathered the herbs carefully so they wouldn't bruise further, and placed them back on the stall.
"These are delicate," he told the vendor. "They wilt quickly."
The vendor swallowed. "I'm sorry."
"You are not responsible for other people's grief," Malachai replied.
He bought a bunch anyway.
---
A woman near the cider stand whispered, "Why is he here?"
Malachai answered without turning. "Because apples are cheaper on Wednesdays."
The woman laughed despite herself.
Covered her mouth.
Looked ashamed.
He did not comment.
---
At the cheese counter, he compared aging times and rind treatments. Asked about salt content. Bought a small wedge—nothing extravagant. Enough to test.
He paid. He thanked them.
He moved on.
---
A security guard hovered at the edge of the crowd, uncertain whether to intervene or apologize. Malachai met his eyes briefly and inclined his head.
The guard relaxed.
That, too, was noticed.
---
By the time Malachai reached the end of the market, his basket was modest: vegetables, bread, cheese, honey, herbs. No indulgences. No statements.
Just dinner.
He stopped once more, comparing the price of eggs between two stalls. Chose the one that paid their workers more and charged a little extra for it.
Someone muttered, "He thinks that fixes it."
Malachai paused.
Turned—not toward the mutter, but toward the stall.
"Nothing fixes everything," he said, evenly. "Some things simply need to be done anyway."
He paid.
---
As he left, someone threw a final thing—a crumpled flyer, accusation-laden, soaked through with ink and anger. It slid across the pavement and came to rest against his boot.
Malachai stepped over it.
The market exhaled.
Stalls resumed their calls. Prices were shouted again. Children tugged at sleeves. Someone dropped a jar and swore softly. Life reasserted itself with stubborn insistence.
---
Malachai walked home with groceries.
He did not justify himself.
He did not explain.
He did not punish.
He compared prices. He chose carefully. He ignored the thrown things.
And in that ordinary, infuriatingly mundane act, he reminded everyone watching—supporters, critics, the wounded and the furious alike—of something they did not know what to do with yet:
That the man who erased a country still worried about overpaying for tomatoes.
That restraint, once broken, did not vanish everywhere at once.
And that sometimes the most unsettling thing a villain could do—
Was keep shopping.