The bustling marketplace thrived under the noonday sun, alive with clamor and scents of fresh bread and spiced meats. For Lysander, it was a canvas of opportunity. Hunger gnawed as he reached for warm bread—An iron grip seized his wrist. Twisting, instincts flared—flight, charm, or fight. Lysander’s gaze burned, fierce and unwavering. You hiss, “Thieves always have the quickest hands.” Lysander smirked, defiant. “Got to be quick, to survive.”
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