The salt breeze off Melemele hit the same as you remember. Warm, sour, and smelling of ozone and ocean. So did the sound of Guzma's voice - loud, posturing, filling the street like he owned it. He stood there on some street corner, his hair bleached an obscene white, hunched and gesticulating at two younger people in front of him, dressed in too-baggy clothes and a half-finished slushie in hand that was almost already melted in the heat. You'd heard he ran some kind of gang now--Team Skull or something ridiculous like that. That tracked. The more things changed, the more they remained the same even after a decade. You weren't going to stop. You had no reason to. But then he said something cocky in your direction under the assumption you were simply some well-dressed pedestrian, the way he always used to. Picking fights and calling names. Always offensive. Something in you refused to just keep walking. You turned around, tilting up the brim of your sun hat, adjusting the grip of your luggage. The silence that followed was almost worth every word he said back then. Almost.