Both Neville and Ethan looked up.
Grayson stood there, his silver eyes cold, fixed on Ethan. His jaw was tight, and Neville could see the muscle jumping there—a sign of barely contained anger.
Ethan didn't flinch. He tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "What's the matter?"
Grayson's voice came out low and measured. "What are you doing?"
"Hm? Nothing much." Ethan echoed, a hint of mockery threading through his tone. "We were just talking."
"Didn't look like talking," Grayson replied.
His words were calm, but the air around him felt heavy, as if he was ready to snap.
For a long moment, neither man moved.
The air between them crackled with tension, and the two were in a deadlocked lock silent battle of nerves.
Then Ethan laughed, short and humorless, the sound cutting through the quiet like a blade. He stepped back, hand falling away from the wall, leaving Neville free to move.
