The tense silence cracked as Théodore Marchand suddenly lunged forward, his coat flaring like a cape behind him. His eyes locked on the gang leader, who instinctively pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The shot echoed, but it missed its mark. Théodore had sidestepped mid-sprint with unnerving grace, his boots skidding slightly across the gravel-strewn concrete. The cigarette still burned in the corner of his mouth, its trail of smoke dancing behind him as he closed the distance between himself and the armed man.
In a split-second motion, Théodore twisted the leader's wrist, yanked the revolver free, and spun it in his hand. He raised it—not at anyone, but toward the sky—and fired off four consecutive shots.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The noise ripped through the street, scattering a few birds and drawing eyes from nearby alleyways. Then, unexpectedly, the revolver slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground. Whether it was intentional or not, no one could say. Théodore simply stood there, unbothered.
Before he could speak, the situation took a dark turn.
One of the gang members, taking advantage of the moment, snuck behind the stunned customer and grabbed him by the throat, jerking him back like a human shield. The man coughed and struggled as the gang leader took several steps backward, now placing the customer directly between himself and Théodore.
A cruel grin spread on the gang leader's face as he picked up the fallen revolver.
"This time," he growled, "you won't be so lucky."
Théodore's eyes narrowed as the muzzle of the revolver was pressed against the temple of the customer. His muscles tensed, but he didn't move.
"Please," Théodore said calmly, his voice carrying surprising weight, "Don't kill innocents."
The gang leader chuckled. "Innocents? There's no such thing here. Now, if you don't want this man's brains decorating the pavement, you'll do exactly what I say."
Théodore hesitated for only a second before raising his hands slowly, surrendering with deliberate composure.
The surrounding gang members took that as their cue. Like vultures, they circled around him, each armed with rods, knives, and iron fists. The leader barked, "Knock him out. But don't kill him. I want to have a little talk with this clown later."
But Théodore didn't look nervous.
As the thugs approached, their weapons drawn and sneers spread wide, his eyes flicked to the customer—still trembling under the barrel of the revolver—and then back to his attackers.
He smiled.
Not out of mockery. But out of control. Confidence. Calculation.
And just as the first thug raised his bat—
Théodore moved.