His boots rang against the cold concrete.
One step.
Then another.
Slow and deliberate.
Richard watched without a word.
There was no fear in his old, battle-worn eyes.
Only patience.
He knew exactly what was about to happen.
Kyle forced a grin, one last attempt at control.
“You think I’m scared of you?”
Michael did not answer.
Instead, he moved.
Faster than anyone expected.
One step, a shift of weight, a flash of controlled movement, and Kyle was driven backward.
His body hit the tiled wall with a hard thud, and the air left his lungs in a sharp gasp.
His friends froze.
Their leader, the one who always ran his mouth, the one who always made the rules, was now on the ground coughing.
Michael did not even look at him for long.
His eyes moved to the rest of them.
A silent challenge.
Come at me.
No one moved.
Kyle groaned, struggling to push himself up.
His ego and pride were shattered, but anger still flickered in his eyes.
He reached for something in his jacket.
A knife.
A terrible choice.
Because the second his fingers touched the handle, Michael struck again.
A fast, precise movement knocked the weapon from Kyle’s hand, sending it clattering across the floor.
Kyle cried out, grabbing his wrist.
Michael did not let the moment grow wild.
He grabbed Kyle by the collar, pinned him against the wall, and leaned in close.
His voice was low and lethal.
“You put your hands on my father.”
Kyle trembled.
His friends...