Today's been unusually busy. Word had gotten around that the metal-armed-doctor can fix bicycles, and he's quite a busier man for it, and fairly sure he's fixed every bicycle in town. Even as he heads down the cobblestone streets to his last stop, he's tucking away tools in his vest. But, on the other hand, one of those vest pockets is now weighted with the money of a hard day's work. It may be exhaustion that makes him less aware of the two watching in wait for him.

As he approaches the shop (a small bakery where he gets his dinner), he notices the sudden lack of light that usually illuminates the store front. The doctor's still a good distance away, on the edge of the shadow from where light should be. "I could fix that," he mumbles, but he's interrupted by the growling of his stomach. "...Tomorrow, maybe."

Disregarding the streetlamp for now, he heads for the door.