Without giving his sanity a chance to protest, Daxter immediately bent down and seized the woman's body. His movements were swift yet careful, as though he were catching something fragile and precious. His strong arms circled her slender waist, and with a single breath he lifted her into his embrace.
The woman struggled, her intoxicated body moving erratically. Her hands tried to break free, her voice faint and uneven, more like a vague whisper than a true rejection. But Daxter paid no heed. His face remained cold, his eyes fixed on features that, to him, resembled Veronica far too closely. He refused to hear objections, refused to lose even the smallest chance. Tonight, fate seemed to return something that had long been stolen from him.
His steps were steady, brimming with authority. Anyone who saw him could only move aside, too intimidated to question or block his way. The man's aura was overwhelming, piercing, like a king demanding his own path.
