"Fancy meeting you here," Lloyd replied, his tone deceptively mild, almost conversational. He stopped a few paces away, projecting calm indifference. "Lost again? This really isn't the scenic route."
"Smart mouth!" snarled the crony on the right, taking an aggressive step forward. "Think you're tough without your daddy's guard dog?"
"Guard dog?" Lloyd tilted his head slightly. "An astute observation. Though I believe 'apex predator' might be a more accurate descriptor for Ken Park. You wouldn't like him when he's annoyed."
"He ain't here now!" the leader countered, stepping closer, trying to loom over Lloyd. "Just you, pretty boy. And us."
"Indeed," Lloyd agreed softly. "An imbalance I intend to correct."
"Gonna correct us?" the third hoodlum laughed nervously, glancing over his shoulder as if half-expecting Ken to materialize from the brickwork. "Think again!"
"We're gonna teach you some manners, Lorship!" the leader growled, lowering his voice, gesturing towards a dark, recessed alcove halfway down the alley. "Private lesson. Just us."
"Sounds dreadfully dull," Lloyd replied, letting his gaze drift past them dismissively. "I have actual lessons to attend. With marginally better conversationalists."
"Enough talk!" the leader roared, his patience snapping. Humiliation and anger boiled over. "Get him!"
They lunged. Not with skill or coordination, but with raw, clumsy aggression, fueled by bruised egos and the perceived safety of numbers against a lone, seemingly unprotected noble. They aimed to overwhelm him, drag him down, inflict pain.
Lloyd didn't retreat. He didn't flinch. As the first thug reached for him, as the leader swung a wild punch, the cold switch inside him flipped completely. The detached calm of the assassin took over. Time seemed to slow fractionally. He saw the trajectory of the punch, the grasping hands, the hate-filled eyes. He felt the familiar thrumming deep in his blood, the Void power answering his silent call.
Pest control. The thought was cold, clinical. Deterrence. Consequence.
His hands remained at his sides. No overt movement. Just pure, focused will.
Three impossibly fine filaments of steel erupted from the air around his hands, near-invisible threads in the grimy dimness. They didn't gleam; they pulsed with a dull, internal cherry-red heat, warping the air around them with shimmering waves, absorbing the feeble light. They moved with the speed of striking vipers, silent and deadly.
Before the leader's punch could land, before the crony's grabbing fingers could make contact, the wires found their marks with brutal precision.
One wrapped snake-like around the leader's punching arm, tightening just below the shoulder. Sizzle.
Another coiled around the second thug's torso, cinching tight across his ribs. Hiss.
The third lashed whip-like across the face and neck of the third attacker as he lunged. Snap.
The alley exploded with sound. Not the sounds of a fight, but the raw, primal screams of absolute agony. It wasn't the indignant yell of a bully getting hit; it was the sound of flesh meeting incandescent heat, of nerves overloaded beyond comprehension.
The leader's punch dissolved into a shriek as he collapsed, clutching his arm, the fabric of his sleeve instantly blackened and smoking where the wire bit deep, searing muscle and tendon. He writhed on the ground, eyes wide with shock and unbearable pain.
The second thug buckled as if poleaxed, air forced from his lungs in a strangled gasp, clawing uselessly at the glowing filament constricting his chest, the smell of burning cloth and flesh sharp and acrid. He stumbled back against the wall, sliding down into a whimpering heap.
The third youth staggered wildly, hands flying to his face and neck, screams tearing from his throat as blood mingled with blistered, blackened skin where the wire had laid its fiery kiss. He tripped over his own feet, crashing hard onto the cobblestones, curling into a fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably.
The entire confrontation, from the lunge to the collapse, took less than three seconds.
Lloyd stood perfectly still, observing the aftermath. The alley was filled with the sounds of their agony, the stench of their scorched flesh. The red-hot wires held for another agonizing second, burning the lesson deep, ensuring the message was received without ambiguity. Then, as quickly and silently as they appeared, they retracted, dissolving back into nothingness, leaving behind only the horrific burns, the trembling victims, and the lingering, sickening smell.
He looked down at the three broken figures. Their aggression was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated terror and pain. They weren't threats anymore. They were simply… wreckage. He felt nothing. No pity, no anger, no triumph. Just the cold satisfaction of a necessary task completed efficiently. This was the language they understood. Fear. Overwhelming, unforgettable fear.