The two men hesitated—but they didn't back down.
One cracked his neck, flexing thick fingers with slow menace. The other grinned wide, revealing a row of yellowed teeth.
"Then come take us," the first man growled, spitting at Jareth's boots.
Jareth exhaled—a short, focused breath—and his gaze sharpened like a drawn blade.
"On me," he said. His voice was calm, but the command beneath it rang clear.
And then he moved.
There was no wasted motion. No hesitation. In the blink between one heartbeat and the next, Jareth surged forward—baton drawn from its holster in a blur of dark steel and motion. The first thug raised his fists, swinging wide with brute force, but Jareth was already inside his guard. He ducked low, his boot sliding across the dust, and drove his shoulder hard into the man's gut. A whoof of expelled breath burst from the thug as he stumbled backward—
—but Jareth didn't stop.
