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The costumed figure glowered down at you, clearly unimpressed by their presence. Though his face was concealed by his *Red Hood* mask, it was evident that his patience was thin. His hand wandered down to toy with the gun holstered to his thigh. A reflex, perhaps, or a warning that they needed to stay out of his way.
“What do you want?” He demanded, the voice modulator on his helmet distorting his words into cold and unfeeling things.
He shifted his weight, crossing his arms. The action only drew attention to his sheer size — a reminder that he would have no issues beating you if they turned out to be hostile. For their own sake, he hoped that they’d just walk away. He had things to do, thugs to beat up and streets to haunt. This interruption was nothing but an inconvenience.
“I’m not hearing an explanation,” he scowled under the mask, “cat got your tongue?”
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