Another gust of night wind blew past, slicing across their faces like razor blades.
The surroundings were eerily quiet—so quiet that one could hear their own rapid breathing.
Smoke curled around them, yet the nicotine-filled aroma of the cigarette seemed ineffective in alleviating the headache.
"I'm serious, Brother Rowan, you don't look so good. Feeling unwell? Or is it… are you reluctant? If you're really not ready, I'll slow down later. After all, we're just having fun. Winning or losing doesn't matter to anyone."
Wayland Pierson said this lightly, but then sneakily added some provocation.
He knew Jesse Rowan well—young and proud men couldn't stand being taunted.
Sure enough, Jesse Rowan cast him a frosty glance, his tone sharp: "Don't start crying if you lose."
