Truth be told, my instincts did get the better of me, just not the one everyone would have assumed. I stepped past her in a quick stride, before she could finish her glare, and positioned myself exactly where the strike had landed earlier.
Every pair of eyes followed the movement, their collective curiosity practically pressing against my back, all of them eager, almost desperate, to see what I intended to do next.
"Everyone… be quiet for some time. And that is to say, I don't want to hear any unnecessary noises. Especially not a child's annoying cry or that constant hum of yours."
I declared firmly, my gaze sweeping through the two dense rows of peoples lined along either side of the street.
The girl with the scythe didn't speak. She stood absolutely still, watching me with that silent expectation that I would fail, that whatever half-formed thing she assumed I was about to attempt would collapse, giving her even more ammunition to throw at me later.
That much was crystal clear in her expression alone.
Naturally, the crowd did the exact opposite of what I'd politely asked.
Whispers erupted immediately, a low, restless murmur rolling through them like a breeze through tall grass. Feet shuffled, throats cleared, the tension thickening as they tried (and utterly failed) to restrain their curiosity.
One guy in particular though caught my attention. Short frame, receding hairline, and a very dubious appearance, like someone who'd spent his entire life perfecting the art of looking both guilty and self-righteous at the same time.
His voice, in particular, was grating enough to qualify as a mild offense against public peace. High, nasal, and sharp, the kind that could cut through silence in the worst way possible.
He leaned sideways to the man next to him, whispering in a tone that was somehow both "secretive" and "loud enough for half the street to hear."
"…see that? Acting all high and mighty… who does he think he is? Coming here, telling us to shut up…"
My brow rose of its own accord.
So much for unnecessary noises.
His lips smacked together again, the way only smug idiots do when they're emboldened by an audience.
"Bet he's in on it," he continued, as if he'd just cracked some grand conspiracy. "Creatures don't stare at normal folk like that. I'm telling you…"
His companion tried to shush him, but he shrugged the hand off with all the bravado of a man who wouldn't survive a single punch in a tavern brawl.
"Yes, yes, keep quiet, keep quiet," he mocked, waving his stubby hand in my direction.
"Thinks he owns the whole street now, standing there like he's uncovering some divine mystery. Hah. What a joke…"
The murmurs around him died instantly.
Not out of respect for me, of course, people weren't that wise, but because they had more survival instinct than he did.
They drifted back, subtle steps, creating a perfect little circle around the man.
A stage.
Even the scythe girl shifted a fraction, her eyes flicking toward me with a mix of anticipation and that faint, yet resigned look.
I let my head tilt ever so slightly, gaze locking onto the man calmly.
A look that should have warned him, if his intelligence matched even a small percentage of his voice's volume.
But he puffed up instead, shoulders squared like a rooster about to challenge a wolf.
"What?" he snapped, glaring at me as though I'd personally offended his ancestors.
"Got something to say? Go on, then. I'm listening."
The irony of that statement almost made me smile.
Almost.
Because while everyone else froze with fear or awe or plain stupidity, this one man, this stunted, sharp-voiced little parasite, decided he was exempt.
Exempt from silence.
Exempt from sense.
Exempt from being ignored by the universe.
'How unfortunate for him.'
He opened his mouth again, maybe to protest, maybe to wheeze out another one of his mosquito-whining remarks.
Too late.
My boot crashed into his stomach with a dull, crushing thud, the kind that folds a man inward like wet parchment.
Air blasted out of him in a choked squeal, his legs buckling as he lifted off the ground for a heartbeat before collapsing onto all fours.
The crowd recoiled, and for me…
Well, I didn't.
I grabbed the back of his head and yanked him upright by his thinning hair.
His eyes went wide, watering, unfocused, like he was only now realizing he'd wandered straight into the jaws of something he couldn't bargain with.
"You really should've stayed quiet," I murmured.
Then I drove my knee into his face.
A sharp crack split the air, bone, cartilage, something important, hard to tell, didn't matter. Blood sprayed across my trouser leg in a thin arc as his head snapped back, his body wobbling uselessly before I shoved him down again.
The maggot tried to crawl away, and let me repeat, actually crawl.
I stepped on his hand, grinding his fingers into the dirt until he screamed, a raw, broken sound ripped out of him before he could swallow it.
"Aaagh…! Gods… gah…! My hand…! Please, please…!"
Then, with the same foot, I kicked his ribs.
Not once.
Twice.
A third time for good measure.
"St-Stop…! I'll be quiet… I'll be… I'll…!"
Each impact sent a satisfying jolt up my leg, each gasp from him becoming more quiter.
He rolled onto his back, coughing, blood dribbling from his nose and mouth in sticky, uneven streaks.
His eyes darted around wildly,from the locals to the scythe-lady, searching for help, for mercy, for anything that might pull him out of the reality he'd earned.
I crouched, grabbed his jaw like he was a loose-limbed puppet, and forced his gaze up to mine.
"When I say quiet," I said softly, eyes locked to his, "I mean quiet."
Then I let go and let gravity decide the rest, and his head hit the floor with a hollow little thunk as a perfect silence settled over the vicinity.
Glancing once toward the heap of people, checking for any confusion or misplaced courage, I stood, brushed the dust from my clothes, and walked back to where I'd been standing.
Leaving the man behind me, groaning and curled like a broken animal.
Then i raised my hands slowly, and with my index and middle fingers extended on each hand, I drew a quick horizontal line in the air, the top edge of an invisible frame.
My left hand dropped, sketching the side of a box, while the right mirrored it with a sharp downward cut.
'I see it. It's hidin? coundn't it just run away?'