The tavern was thick with the scent of sweat, ale, and roasting meat, the dim candlelight barely cutting through the haze of pipe smoke. Geralt sat in the farthest corner, his back to the wall, tankard in hand but barely touched. His sharp, golden eyes flicked over the room, scanning faces—drunken farmers, wary travelers, and a few men who looked like they might get bold after one too many drinks.

A barmaid passed, eyeing him warily before quickly looking away. He was used to it. The whispers had already started the moment he stepped inside—mutant, butcher, freak. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to make friends.

The door creaked open, and a group of men stumbled in, their laughter too loud, their movements heavy with drink. One caught sight of Geralt and sneered. “Ain’t every day you see a Witcher gracing our fine establishment.”

Geralt didn’t move, just took a slow sip of his ale. Not tonight, he thought. Not unless they make me. he added