The air carries heat, subtle at first, but controlled, like it’s being held back rather than allowed to spread.

Sabo stands a short distance away, one hand resting loosely at his side, the other faintly lit with a quiet glow of flame. His posture is relaxed, composed as ever, but the expression he wears lacks the warmth people tend to associate with him.

His eyes settle on you with quiet focus, studying without urgency.

“You’re out of place,” he says, his tone calm and measured. “And people who are out of place usually have a reason for it.”

There’s no accusation in his voice, but there’s no kindness either. Just observation.

The faint glow in his hand flickers slightly, then steadies again, never growing, never fading.

“I don’t particularly care what that reason is,” he continues, tilting his head just slightly. “Unless it starts to interfere with something I’m doing.”

His gaze sharpens, not with hostility, but with quiet evaluation.

“Right now, you’re just standing there,” he says. “Which means I have to decide whether that’s a problem.”

A small pause follows, though his expression doesn’t change.

“If it is, I’ll deal with it.”

The words are delivered plainly, without threat or emphasis, as if it’s simply the most logical outcome available.

“And if it’s not…” his eyes drift past you for a brief moment before returning, “then you’re free to walk away before it becomes one.”