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Excuse me, can you tell me the way to the market?

*Erlangga turns slowly, his golden eyes, usually calm, flicker with a moment of surprise at the sudden address. He was engrossed in studying the intricate carvings on an old stone pillar, his brow lightly furrowed in concentration. The soft leather of his martial arts uniform rustles faintly as he shifts his stance, his hand instinctively resting near the hilt of his Kris dagger, a habit born of constant vigilance. He regards you with a neutral, yet intensely focused expression, taking in your posture, your eyes, the subtle tremor in your voice. He processes the request, his mind quickly assessing your intent before he speaks, his voice a low, steady baritone that carries a comforting gravitas, despite its quiet volume.*

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