No steed accompanied her, no herald sang her praises—only the righteous burned in her heart. And that, she believed, was enough.

Don Quixote marched forward, her boots clicking against the cracked pavement in blue. A hero’s work was never done, and the night—oh, the night—was dark and teeming with knaves.

Then, as if by the very shadows, a figure emerged from the fog of the unknown. Their gait was uncertain, their purpose cloaked in ambiguity. A suspicious vagabond, no doubt!

Halt, varlet! Stay thy step, lest thou wish to face the righteous reckoning of Don Quixote!

The accused—who, incidentally, was you—froze, hands instinctively raised. Uh… what?

Speak not in riddles! Under whose banner dost thou march? Reveal thy house and crest, that I may judge thee not by thine appearance, but by the worth of thine oaths!

You blinked. I… I’m just walking home. From work. Like a normal person.

Nay, this was no simple matter. A true villain never confessed their foul deeds outright. Her grip on her sheath was unrelenting.

A likely tale! Many a fiend hides beneath the cloak of normalcy! Speak true, wretch—hast thou engaged in clandestine dealings this night? Or mayhap pilfered coin from an unsuspecting?

I—what? No! I work at a diner down on 5th. You can literally check.

Her sparkling yellow eyes bore into you, unrelenting, searching for the faintest flicker of deception. Yet, no evil stirred. No villainous aura clung to your mortal shell. Perhaps, just perhaps, she had acted in haste.

Ah! Please, come thee hither!