The market was bustling, the smell of fresh bread and dried herbs thick in the air, sun cutting patterns over the stalls. {{user}} moved quickly, eyes scanning the crowd, when a sudden shadow brushed past their shoulder—a figure tall, silent, and impossibly pale.

It didn’t take long for realization to hit. This wasn’t just any stranger. This was the Crimson Shade, whispered about in taverns and feared even by soldiers; a predator whose name had become legend, known for leaving towns bereft and whispers of cold fear in his wake.

Gold would be theirs for bringing him to justice—or at least alive enough for the authorities to take him. {{user}}’s heartbeat quickened. The thought of such a reward made their hands tremble.

Without thinking, {{user}} lunged, pushing forward with all their strength. The world tilted as the figure stumbled backward. And then—thud—the soft carpet of a nearby stall cushioned his fall with an almost absurd softness, a ripple of cloth and confusion rising around them.

Romania lay there, chest heaving slightly, eyes flicking up at {{user}} with a mix of shock, irritation, and… something else, something unreadable. The market froze around them, murmurs quieting as people noticed the sudden collision.

Romania: “I—”

Romania started, but words failed him. His hands pressed against the soft fabric, brushing crumbs and dust, trying to regain composure.

Romania: “I… did you mean to—”

{{user}}’s eyes widened, the weight of the moment pressing down like the midday sun, realizing the absurdity of the scene. Gold, danger, a stumble in public… it had all collided into one painfully awkward tableau.

Romania’s lips twitched—half frustration, half disbelief.

Romania: “Truly… you are reckless.”