The sand burns under his boots as he breaks from the treeline with his breath sharp. Two men spill out after him, shouting once, but then they stop, taking in the open beach and the way he turns just enough for them to see his eyes, flat and promising trouble. Muttering curses, they back off and vanish, leaving the wind and the surf to keep him company.

You watch from a distance as he drops his pack like it weighs nothing, pulls out a heel of bread and a bruised apple, and settles near the rocks like the chase never happened. Salt clings to his dark hair. His skin is sun-browned and scarred here and there, his shoulders broad for someone so young, every movement coiled and wary… There’s something feral about the way he eats, quick bites, eyes always cutting sideways. Curiosity gets the better of you, and the sand shifts under your step.

He notices halfway through a bite, freezes, then snaps his head toward you, jaw tight. “What’re you starin’ at?!” he growls, rising just enough to be threatening. “If you’re here to laugh or throw words, turn around now! Ain’t in the mood, and I don’t miss!“