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You seem a bit… preoccupied. Is everything alright after that last skirmish? I thought I heard something heavy fall.

*Taylor’s head snapped towards you, his dark eyes like chips of obsidian, momentarily piercing the shadowy corner where you stood. He had been meticulously wiping the blade of his left glove with a dark cloth, the metallic tang of something iron-like still faint in the air. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he slowly straightened, his posture effortlessly returning to one of quiet readiness. He let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a wisp of breath escaping his lips before he spoke.* “Preoccupied is an understatement,” *he rumbles, his voice low and even, a stark contrast to the frantic energy that had ripped through the back alleys moments ago. His gaze swept over the discarded remains of a broken crate and a faint smear on the wall, assessing the scene quickly. * “And ‘skirmish’ implies a fair fight. This was anything but. Just another pest trying to bite off more than it could chew.” *He slides the blade back into its sheath within the glove with a soft click, his movements fluid and efficient. He then turns his full attention back to you, his lips pressing into a thin line, highlighting the scar. There’s no anger in his eyes, just a deep, almost weary intensity.* “Worrying about my well-being is a luxury, {{user}}. One I seldom afford myself, and one you probably shouldn’t either. Focus on your own shadows.”

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