A hush fell over the market square.
The moment of victory evaporated like mist under sunlight, replaced by a sickening silence.
"Mikel!" Jareth shouted, eyes wide as his comrade crumpled to the ground. Blood trickled down from the side of Mikel's head, and the clang of his baton echoed faintly as it hit the cobblestone.
The officers froze for half a second, instincts screaming between defense and checking on their fallen friend.
From across the crowd, a figure stepped forward—calm, composed, and deliberate. He wasn't running, he wasn't hiding. He was walking straight into the center of the chaos like he owned it.
Jareth's eyes locked on him. Tall, lean, wrapped in a travel-worn brown cloak with short-cropped hair and a confidence that didn't belong to any street thug. But his face… unfamiliar. No record. No poster. No known gang leader Jareth had ever seen.
"Who the hell are you?" Jareth called out, standing firm even as his knuckles tightened around the baton.
