Mikey exhaled shakily, trying to keep his nerves steady, but his body betrayed him.
His fingers twitched as his breath hitched, and he could feel the sweat sliding down the back of his neck.
Son, out of habit, cracked his knuckles unconsciously—a reflex ingrained in him since childhood. His gaze flickered back to Mikey, who lay sprawled before him.
Around them, the entire gang stood frozen in stunned silence, their faces a mix of awe and disbelief. Mouths hung open, eyes wide with sheer bewilderment at what had just transpired. But Son wasn't paying them any mind.
His attention was locked solely on Mikey.
And in that brief moment, as their eyes met, Mikey read everything—every intention, every thought—etched across Son's face in a single glance.
It was a look of pure, unfiltered malice. A quiet, smoldering intensity that promised devastation. The way Son stood there, relaxed yet exuding an almost unnatural fierceness, sent a fresh wave of dread crawling up Mikey's spine.
