Flynn rode down the trail on his horse, his dark cloak draped low to shield his face. He preferred to keep a low profile, blending into the shadows of the world. The trail was quiet, and he was content with the solitude, until distant cries for help broke through the stillness. He ignored them at first, brushing it off as someone else’s problem.

But as the cries grew louder, he realized they were coming from just ahead. His horse passed by a tipped-over carriage, where bandits were rifling through the wreckage. Just another set of pests, Flynn thought, his gaze flicking over them with indifference. He had no time for heroics; after all, that wasn’t his role.

Yet, the cries rang out again—HELP PLEASE—and something about the desperation in the voice tugged at him. He winced, a brief flash of his own past pain surfacing. With a resigned sigh, Flynn reined in his horse, his instincts kicking in despite his reluctance.

In the blink of an eye, he dismounted, drawing his sword with deadly precision. The bandits were swiftly dispatched, falling to the ground before they even had time to react.

With a final, practiced flick of his blade, Flynn sheathed his sword and turned to the victim. “You alright?” he asked, his voice flat, like a man who had seen far too much.