Creed immediately snapped into battle mode. His eyes narrowed, his body tensed, and his senses sharpened like blades.
That voice was slick, cocky, and smoother than butter on a summer skillet and it had definitely belonged to Alan Snow.
But the question was: Where the hell was he?
Creed's eyes darted around the stone chamber, scanning every corner, every shadow, every nook and cranny like a paranoid raccoon in a haunted bakery.
His vision, already enhanced due to his superb sight and combat readiness, caught every little flicker of movement, but still, nothing.
No figure standing dramatically on a ledge. No mysterious boot prints on the ground. Not even a single cape fluttering in the wind.
Then, Alan's voice came again, echoing from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"What? You really thought I came here just to throw hands with you?" The voice was smug. Smug enough to kick a pigeon and smile about it.
