Kyle chuckled.
“You think you’re better than us, huh?”
His fingers flexed.
A punch was coming.
Richard knew.
He could see it in Kyle’s stance, the shift in his weight, the tightening of his jaw, the brief hesitation before a predator strikes.
But before Kyle could throw it, a deep, rumbling voice echoed from the top of the stairs.
“Take your hands off my father.”
Silence.
Kyle froze.
So did his friends.
The air shifted.
Richard did not need to look up.
He recognized that voice.
Kyle turned slowly.
His confidence flickered.
At the head of the stairs stood a man, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black tactical jacket and carrying a presence so powerful it seemed to cool the entire station.
Commander Michael Dawson.
His expression was unreadable, but his blue eyes burned with something raw.
A threat.
A vow.
Kyle’s smirk disappeared.
The station was still.
Too still.
Then Michael moved one step closer, and the pursuit turned around.
The air thickened.
No one moved.
No one said a word.
Kyle’s cocky self-assurance faltered, replaced by something else.
Doubt.
His friends shifted uncomfortably.
The mood had changed, and all of them could feel it.
Michael Dawson stood at the head of the stairs like a figure of judgment.
Unmoving.
Unyielding.
The son of the man they had just tried to humiliate.
A special operations commander.
A man trained for moments where hesitation was not an option.
Kyle swallowed, his jaw tightening.
He would not back down.
Not in front of his group.
Not now.
He sneered.
“Who the hell are you?”
Michael took a step forward.