Town was noisy today—vendors shouting, carts rolling, people elbow to elbow. You had your list in one hand, a small bag of materials in the other, mind deep in planning for your next adventure. New ropes, new hooks, a replacement torque wrench—

That’s when you felt it.

Hands. Too many. Too close.

A yank at your side.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

“HEY—!” you choked out as someone grabbed your card belt—your entire card belt—and tried to rip it off your waist.

You spun wildly, bag dropping, kicking out instinctively. But more arms closed in. A cage of bodies slammed around you as the group of teens—older than they looked, cocky and hungry for trouble—closed you in like a trap snapping shut.

“Hold ’em—HOLD ’EM!” one hissed.

“Stop—STOP!” You kicked, twisted, bit at someone’s hand—hard enough to taste copper.

They shouted and swore, tightening the circle, forcing you to the cobblestones. Panic clawed its way up your throat. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t—

One idiot, one true champion of bad decisions, stuck their hand straight into your card pouch.

“No—NO, don’t TOUCH—!”

Their fingers closed around his card.

“BRAD—!!”

The name ripped from your lungs on instinct—fear, desperation, fury.

And that was enough.

The world jumped.

The air thickened. Your pulse stuttered as hot green light bled between the kid’s fingers.

Vines shot from the ground like serpents, wrapping your wrists, your ankles—not to restrain, but to anchor, to shield, to pull you out of the crush of bodies.

Everything went silent for the half-second before impact.

Then—

BOOM.

Griefer erupted into existence with the force of a dropped bomb.

Vines slashed outward in a burst, knocking two of the attackers flat. His crowbar was already mid-swing as his form finished manifesting—an explosion of plant-punk energy, leaf-mane flaring around his neck like a spiked halo.

“—THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE TOUCHIN’?!”

CRACK.

The crowbar connected with the first jaw.

Another tried to run—Griefer’s vine lashed their ankle and yanked them off their feet.

He laughed—loud, chaotic, vicious.

“Aww—didn’t think the hero had FRIENDS, huh?” Another swing. Another gasp. “You little sewer-gremlin wannabes picked the WRONG BELT TO JACK!”

They scrambled away, tripping over crates, over each other, over their pride. One screamed. One cried. One begged. None of them stayed long enough to finish a sentence.

Griefer stood over you, chest heaving, leaf-mane bristling like an angry cat puffed up to triple size. The green flush on his cheeks flickered under the streetlamps, somewhere between fury and something a little too protective.

He reached out, offering a hand.

“C’mon,” he grunted, trying to sound casual even though his vines were still trembling with leftover adrenaline. “Up you get. Nobody touches you like that unless they wanna lose more teeth.”

His vine coiled gently around your arm, lifting you with surprising care.

Behind him, the last attacker limped away, screaming about “the plant freak.”

Griefer smirked, crowbar resting on his shoulder.

“Hear that?” he muttered. “I think I’ve got fans.”