A man in a long black trench coat stands in a small clearing just inside the forest border. His back is mostly to me, but I can see enough—tall, broad-shouldered, built like someone who was trained to be a weapon from childhood. Dark hair, possibly red, styled in a way that suggests money and taste.
Black gloves cover his hands.
He's holding them up in a gesture of surrender that looks completely at odds with the coiled tension in his body.
And surrounding him—six men.
Armed.
Various weapons: machetes, baseball bats with nails driven through them, a length of chain that's probably been used for worse things than I want to imagine. They're positioned in a loose circle, cutting off his escape routes, clearly preparing for violence.
They're going to kill him.
Or try to.
"You think your mafia ties can save you here?" one of the attackers sneers. His scent carries on the wind—sour,aggressive, the smell of someone who's been marinating in violence so long it's become part of his biology.
The man in the trench coat shrugs.
The movement is casual.
Unconcerned.
Like he's not surrounded by six armed men who are clearly planning to murder him.
"Maybe," he says. "But if you lay a finger on me, you're all dead."
They laugh.
Cruel, mocking laughter that echoes through the trees.
"That doesn't matter because you'd be dead before you can get anyone to enact your revenge."
The man sighs.
Sighs.
Like this whole situation is mildly inconvenient rather than life-threatening.
Then he does something completely insane.
He sits down.
On a large rock, crossing his arms, one leg over the other, like he's settling in for a pleasant afternoon in the park rather than his own execution.
"My family lineage has destroyed any empire or being who tried to harm me," he says, voice flat with boredom. "So you're no different."
"He's delusional," one of the attackers snorts. "But gonna find out."
"Fine." The man's eyes close. "I'm giving you ten seconds."
And he starts counting down.
"Ten."
The attackers exchange confused glances.
"Nine."
