Creed didn't rush.
In fact, he walked forward with the kind of calm, unbothered swagger that made it feel like he was the one who owned the corridor and not the thugs who were currently stomping Trent into a red smear.
His hands were in his pockets, and there was no tension in his body at all—just a casual, loose stride, like he was out for a pleasant stroll in the park and just so happened to come across a live-action beatdown.
His boots echoed quietly on the stone floor, each step louder than the next, and yet none of the five attackers noticed him until he stepped into their line of vision.
And that's when all five of them turned around with alarm.
Their heads snapped toward him like prey sensing a predator, their expressions changing immediately from mockery to caution.
One of them; a tall guy with ash-gray hair and sharp cheeks squinted, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "Where the hell did you come from?" he muttered. "I didn't even feel him approach."
