Each footfall is pronounced with a distinctive click of the heel or jangle of instruments vital to his trade. Leather creaks on every confident swing of his leg, an easy swagger punctuated with menace. A symphony of deadly purpose.

There is no doubt. Each of them reek of fear. They are many and he is one, but doesn't ease their anxiety. He is so... sure. Panic is hanging thick in the air, a dense mist clouding vision. And judgement.

He draws a knife, the first of many. Beads of condensation cling to the steel, the evapourated sweat of terror drawn inexorably towards fate itself.