Another fat man shoved forward from the gang, his gut bouncing against his belt as he pushed aside two of his own men. His voice was rough, drunk with false bravado.
"Hey brat—who the hell are you? Get out of here before I—"
Miles didn't even turn his head. His eyes stayed locked on the trembling goon, the one already drenched in fear from the memory of broken bones. That silent stare was heavier than any weapon.
The fat man spat on the ground, furious at being ignored. "Oi! I'm talking to you!"
Still no answer.
The fat man's cheeks burned red. He clenched the metal rod in his hand until it groaned under the strain, then roared—"You—!!"
He flung the rod straight at Miles.
A sudden clang split the air as Miles tilted just slightly, the rod grazing past his sleeve. His cufflink snapped loose and clattered against the pavement.
Miles lowered his gaze. He picked it up carefully between two fingers, brushing the dust away, as if the world had gone completely still.
