"Three," Bruce said, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that seemed to vibrate the very floorboards.
He wasn't looking at his men; instead, he was staring at the wreckage that remained of them. "Three of my best."
"Not a single one of them so much as grazed your skin."
"Four, if you count the man in the lane," Mike countered, his voice smooth, dripping with a casual, infuriating arrogance.
He didn't even look winded; he looked like he was bored of the carnage.
Bruce's eyes flickered to the broken heap of Reyes, then back to Mike. A grim, dark respect settled in the corners of his mouth.
"I count the lane."
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. In the corner, Big G leaned against the wall, his eyes fixed on the floor. He hadn't moved an inch.
There was a visible shift in the atmosphere around him, a sense of profound, almost spiritual relief. Seeing Mike dismantle his men wasn't a blow to his ego; it was a vindication.
