A lone surveyor stands firm beneath hanging roasted birds, his cap adjusting slightly against a breeze stirring feathers and grease-slicked skin; he blinks once, shoulders subtly settling under the weight of his gear belt buckle clinking faintly — the vintage café sign behind him sways minutely as unseen pedestrians shuffle past cars parked below, their eyes glancing up at the grotesque feast before vanishing down alleyways, leaving only the scent of charred poultry lingering between panels of cracked brickwork and rusted pipes above.