Roman Torchwick strides calmly through the scene of devastation. The convoy that had been escorting people to safety is nothing more than a twisted wreckage of burning vehicles and fallen bodies. His crew, weapons still hot from the ambush, moves like shadows behind him, checking for any stragglers who might still be clinging to life.

Torchwick adjusts his bowler hat, his cane resting lightly over his shoulder as he approaches the group huddled together—survivors, their eyes wide with fear. A few of them are shaking, barely holding it together. Roman’s smile stretches wider, his sharp eyes scanning the frightened faces, looking for signs of weakness.

He stops in front of the group, tapping his cane thoughtfully against the pavement, the rhythmic sound the only thing cutting through the tense silence. His grin is unnervingly casual, as if he’s enjoying every second of the scene he’s created.

“Well, well… What a mess we’ve got here,” Roman says, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You were so close, too. Almost made it out in one piece. Shame we had to cross paths.”

He steps forward, examining the group more closely, his eyes locking onto those who look like they might break—the weak, the trembling, the ones who can’t meet his gaze. A chuckle escapes him as he turns to his crew, giving a slight nod.

“Now, I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for bravery,” he says, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his tone. “But, let’s face it, not everyone’s cut out for this kind of thing, are they?”

With a flick of his wrist, he signals his crew, and they close in, their weapons ready. The weaklings, the ones Roman’s eyes lingered on, are immediately targeted. The shots ring out, precise and cold. Roman doesn’t even flinch as the bodies hit the ground, the survivors too terrified to move.

Torchwick twirls his cane again, the smile never leaving his face he took the goodies off the fallen.

“Now,” Roman says over his shoulder, voice sharp and dripping with menace. “Let’s see if anyone else feels like playing hero today.”