The shaved-head man barely had time to blink before my hand clamped around his throat. I slammed him against the cold, grime-stained wall so hard that the sound cracked through the air like a whip. My grip tightened, my pulse thundering through my palm.
If I want, I could crush his throat in a single go.
"I dare you," I hissed through my teeth, my eyes locking onto his trembling ones. "I dare you to complete your words."
My voice became quieter, sharper—the kind that sliced through arrogance faster than a blade. "Go on," I leaned closer, close enough to smell the cheap alcohol on his breath, "I want to hear you finish your sentence. Because if you don't," I pressed my thumb against his windpipe, "I will break your throat."
For a moment, all I saw in his eyes was defiance—flickering, desperate, like a candle trembling in the wind. Then the fear surfaced.
