One of the gangsters finally broke the frozen silence.

  "Man… how did another kid come here?" he muttered, stepping forward with an annoyed sigh, like Jihan was an inconvenience rather than a threat. "Kid, you shouldn't have come here."

  Jihan didn't answer.

  He didn't even look at him.

  The man clicked his tongue, walking closer with an ugly grin spreading across his face.

  He leaned down, lifting a hand toward Jihan's cheek.

  "Now look what you did," he sneered. "We don't have any choice but to—"

  He never finished.

  Jihan's foot moved — just once — a small, sharp motion so clean it barely made a sound.

  It hit the man right between the legs — the kind of strike novelists politely call a blow below the belt.

  The gangster's eyes went wide.

  His breath left him in a soundless choke.

  His knees buckled.

  He dropped.

  First to a crouch.

  Then to his hands.

  Then to the floor entirely, curling in on himself like a crushed insect.

  A strangled wheeze escaped his throat.

  The room fell silent again.

  Jihan still hadn't moved from where he stood.

  Hands at his sides.

  Expression blank.

  As if kicking a grown man into the floor was the same as brushing dust off his sleeve.

  Everyone's eyes widened, and the whole room went silent.

  No one moved.

  No one even breathed too loudly.

  They didn't dare.

  Their eyes were fixed on Jihan — not with irritation anymore, not with mockery, but with something that looked uncomfortably close to fear.

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  Jihan stepped inside the room.

  Not fast.

  Not slow.

  Just… one quiet step at a time.

  His usual slouch — that lazy posture he always carried — was gone. His shoulders were straight, steady, almost unnervingly calm.

  And his eyes… those half-lidded, easygoing eyes… now held something colder than anger.

  Something I had never seen from him before.

  Something the others in the room clearly didn't know how to handle.

  He didn't look at any of them.

  Not at the tattooed man shifting his stance.

  Not at the scar-faced one gripping the metal rod.

  Not even at the loan agent, whose smile had finally slipped.

  Jihan's eyes were locked on me.

  On my swollen face.

  On the blood drying down my jaw.

  On my body slumped in the chair, barely able to stay upright.

  When he reached me, he didn't speak.

  He didn't touch me.

  He just stood there… looking.

  Even in my barely conscious state, I could see it.

  The darkness on his face.

  A stillness so sharp it almost felt like the air itself refused to move around him.

  Then — finally — he opened his mouth.

  "Hey..."His voice was low. Too low.

  "Who among you…"A pause, heavy enough to crush the remaining silence.

  "…did this to him?"

  The room stayed silent.

  Not because they respected him.

  Not because they feared him.

  But because—they couldn't read him.

  Jihan finally turned toward them.

  Not with fury.

  Not with rage.

  But with a calm look and a darkened face.

  "Aren't you guys gonna answer me?"

  His voice was still low—but something inside it had changed.

  Everyone could feel the coldness woven through each quiet syllable.

  The loan agent snapped out of the shock first.

  He swung toward the four gangsters, voice cracking with fear beneath his anger.

  "The hell are you all doing!? Are you telling me you're scared of a kid now? Don't f*ck with me—finish him already!"

  None of the gangsters reacted at first.

  Not out of hesitation—but because they were studying Jihan.

  Then the scar-faced gangster stepped forward, resting the metal rod across his shoulder.

  "You really surprised us for a moment, kid."

  The shock from earlier vanished, replaced by a chilling grin.

  "Everyone…"The others smirked—faces shifting into something cruel.

  "Let's end it together, faster."

  "It looks like you guys don't want to live anymore," Jihan said, voice still calm.

  Then he stepped forward, eyes like frozen steel.

  "I swear I'll kill all of you."

  And they charged—four gangsters on one side,

  Jihan Navraan alone on the other.

  The distance closed.

  Step by step.

  Air tightening.

  Floor creaking under shifting weight.

  The scar-faced gangster moved first.

  He let out a hoarse shout and swung the metal rod with everything he had.

  "Die… kid!"

  The rod sliced through the air with a sharp whoosh, fast enough to break bone had it landed.

  But Jihan had already moved.

  Not fast.

  Not frantic.

  Just a small shift of his upper body—clean, precise, as if he'd known the attack long before it came.

  The rod missed his face by a breath.

  Before the scar-faced man could recover, Jihan's foot slid forward and tapped the man's ankle.

  A tiny movement.

  Almost gentle.

  But it snapped the man's balance instantly—his stance collapsing like a loose pillar.

  And in the very same motion—

  Jihan's body turned, weight lifting for a moment.

  He rolled upward through the air, a smooth, controlled rotation, almost elegant.

  Then his heel shot out.

  Straight into the right cheekbone of the scar-faced gangster.

  Crack.

  The man's head snapped sideways.

  His body lifted off the ground—not stumbling,

  not flopping,

  but flying left like someone had yanked him by the skull.

  He slammed into the wall with a heavy, sickening THUD, dust shaking loose from the impact.

  He didn't get up.

  He didn't even twitch.

  Jihan landed lightly—feet settling onto the floor with the softest tap, posture steady, expression unchanged.

  As if sending a grown man flying into a wall were nothing more than adjusting a chair.

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