When Chris said the words, "He's my father," Knox felt the sky collapse around him.
He'd thought this was just a minor conflict—maybe toss them some supplies, smooth things over.
But now? This wasn't just personal. This was deeper than blood vengeance.
"Knox," one of his men whispered nervously, "I think I remember that guy. Blake had his eye on some pretty girl, tried to drag her off to his room. That guy told him off, so Blake had him 'taught a lesson.'"
"…"
Knox's head snapped toward Blake, eyes blazing with fury.
"You stupid motherfucker," he growled. "You really went and dug your own grave. Fuck it—I'll kill you myself!"
He grabbed a machete and charged at Blake.
"No—Knox! I was wrong! Don't kill me!"
WHAM!
Chris's boot slammed into Knox's chest, sending him flying backward like a ragdoll.
"Don't you dare try to play the sympathy card," Chris said coldly.
By now, the rest of the compound had gone dead silent.
No one moved.
