Lyon hated to be disturbed. There was nothing he hated more than some punk calling out to him during one of his daily strolls and going 'hey, asshole, you owe me money!' because it meant that he had to take time to put them in a trash can and kick them down the road.
Unfortunately for Lyon, that wouldn't be so simple. The person who called out to him was young. It seemed like little more than a chance encounter. He looked down at the sword at his side and at the young man. There was a chance he didn't notice. It was dark, after all. The moonlight refracted off the blade, but most citizens of the Upper Plate were too aloof to care about that.
There was something odd about this, though. Why was this boy here? And why was he waiting on a bench well after midnight? Didn't he know how dangerous that was?
Lyon made a mental sigh. Some light intimidation should do the trip. The boy would thank him later.
"Beat it, kid," he said, his voice almost at a low growl.