Blood dripped from the corner of Galen's lips as his head snapped sideways from the man's brutal slap. The sharp sting echoed through his skull, and for a moment, the room tilted. He spat crimson onto the floor, the metallic taste lingering as he rolled his jaw to ease the ache.
"Damn," he muttered through a half-grin, voice hoarse but defiant. "That actually hurt." He lifted his gaze slowly, eyes burning faintly beneath the dim lantern light. "Did you just call me the son of a murderer?"
The man before him said nothing at first. His expression remained composed, but his eyes—those amber shards behind his glasses—were alive with loathing.
"Well," Galen continued, his tone cutting through the silence, "from that alone, I can guess you've got some personal grudge against my father. 'Cause I know for a fact my mother wouldn't hurt a fly."
