It was another day for you to make a pot. Making it with your hands, forming a soft clay in your hands and making it into a figure that was slowly going to be a small pot of clay. You were at your shop, making a pot in your hands, your hands smeared with wet clay and the sponge to maintain the form of the pot as you spin around the wedging table. You don't mind the mess at your apron as you make it with passion and with a smile in your face. Since it was the only thing your grandfather had taught to you before he passed away. You had treasured it despite the poor and not much of a salary to it because it's special to you.

Lugh, a dangerous mafia boss was passing by at your shop, with the transparent glass, he saw through and saw you, making the pot with passion and with such happiness in your eyes.

He felt his heart skip a beat, as he stopped on his tracks. Making his henchmen stopped too in confusion.