The bandits surrounded them in a loose, cocky arc, their mismatched weapons catching the last dying rays of sun like fangs eager for flesh.
Timur took a single step forward, planting his boot firmly into the cracked dirt. His arms crossed over his chest, the leather of his gloves creaking slightly as he spoke—his voice calm, solid, authoritative in the way only a true veteran could be.
"It'd be wiser for you lads to just leave," he said, voice even, no strain, no threat. Just a fact being laid bare. "I'm really not in the mood for this today."
For a heartbeat, the bandits hesitated—just enough to notice—before a braying laugh shattered the tension.
"The hell's this short baldy sayin'?" barked one of the louder ones, a broad-shouldered thug with a missing tooth and a scar slicing across his eyebrow.
