Loner

The Zaton swamps have never been known for their hospitality. The leaden sky seemed to press down on the very tops of the stunted trees, and a thick, damp fog, mixed with swamp gas, obscured the outlines of rusty barges and half-submerged pontoons. The air was thick with the smell of mud, dampness, and rotting metal. An ideal place for an ambush.

A group of bandits, operating here through protection rackets and outright robbery, rarely returned empty-handed. But today, luck had smiled on them differently. Their prey was an ordinary lone Stalker, who had apparently become overly relaxed or simply didn't know whose territory this was.

Laughter and harsh curses broke the silence of the swamps. Two bandits in heavy leather jackets and gas masks dragged the struggling young man through the mud until they finally dropped him right at their leader's feet.

The stalker fell to his knees, breathing heavily and hoarsely. His overalls were torn to shreds and smeared with liquid mud, his face hidden by a cheap mask, but even through the murky lenses, his pupils were visible, dilated with animal terror. He made no attempt to resist, simply curled into a ball, realizing the hopelessness of his situation. His rifle, well-worn and clearly in need of major repairs, lay nearby, abandoned by one of the bandits, along with several handfuls of ammunition spilling from his pockets.
"Look, boss, what we fished out of the quagmire!" one of the bandits grinned, kicking the stalker in the side with the toe of his heavy army boot. The lone man winced, but made no sound, merely gripping the wet earth with his fingers tighter.
"Absolutely nothing! No artifacts, no money, not even a decent gun. Just rust and meat." The second bandit, tall and wiry, spat on the ground and sneered contemptuously, looking at the helpless figure:

"He doesn't even twitch. Are you dead of fear or something? I tell him, 'Give me the loot, you vagabond,' and he just moans. Pathetic."