Before Don could say or do anything, a ripple of movent passed through the crowd. The sound of voices grew louder, and heads began to turn toward a commotion on the far side of the parking lot. People shifted, making way for soone approaching.
Don's gaze followed theirs, his sharp instincts imdiately catching the sound of a familiar voice talking through the low buzz of the crowd. He didn't react outwardly, his face remaining as composed as ever, but his eyes narrowed slightly. 'That's Charles.'
The Rolls-Royce driver, still fuming, noticed the shift in attention and scowled. His earlier bravado faltered as he realized he was no longer the center of the crowd's focus.
The figure coming toward them didn't even need the crowd to part fully before his presence beca obvious. Standing well over six feet tall with an unmistakable aura of confidence, Charles Monclaire walked onto the scene.
His long silver hair caught the faint moonlight, practically glowing, while his outfit sparkled with absurd extravagance.
Charles was dressed in a bright white shirt with gem-studded sleeves, loose black pants embedded with tiny, glittering diamonds, and loafers adorned with eralds. Each step he took made the gemstones catch the light, creating an almost cinematic effect.
Hector montarily forgot the Rolls-Royce driver, his mouth slightly open as his mind scrambled to estimate the cost of such an outrageous outfit.
Donald, like the rest of the crowd, quickly recognized Charles. While not a household na across the country, Charles "Silverwing" Monclaire was at least a B-list celebrity nationwide and easily A-list in their city.
Donald glanced at Don, then back at Charles, like many in the crowd, making a quick connection. Everyone knew Don had joined the city's Elite Hero Program, and Charles was a prominent mber. They had to know each other, right?
The Rolls-Royce driver's expression darkened once he, too, recognized Charles. Unlike most up-and-coming superheroes, Charles ca from wealth and influence—exactly the kind of power the driver respected. Self-entitled brats like him only feared those with real authority, and Charles embodied that effortlessly.
As Charles approached, the murmurs quieted. He moved with casual steps, his hands tucked into his pockets and a charming smile on his face. When he reached the small group, he positioned himself between Don and the Rolls-Royce driver.
"Is there a problem, gentlen?" Charles asked, his tone as smooth and polished as his appearance.
The Rolls-Royce driver gulped, his earlier arrogance crumbling. He forced a smile, his voice faltering. "N-no, Mr. Monclaire, I—"
Before he could finish, Don cut him off. "He ramd into my friend's car and claims it's our fault since it's his parking spot," Don said, his tone one of dry contempt. "We're just trying to educate him on common sense, but he seems too dense to understand."
The Rolls-Royce driver's face turned red, his anger bubbling over as he tried to snap back. "Watch your mouth, you—"
Before he could finish, Charles raised a hand, a small gesture ant to diffuse the situation. But before Charles could even fully speak, Don stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the Rolls-Royce driver.
"Or what?" Don said, his voice cold. "You'll go cry to your father?"
The driver flinched slightly, his earlier bravado slipping.
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Charles turned his gaze to Don, his silver eyes gleaming with a hint of sothing unreadable. 'Interesting.' Charles thought.
He wasn't used to seeing people confront privilege so bluntly. Most would have backed down or tried to smooth things over. Don's approach wasn't polished, but it was raw—and Charles respected raw potential. Still, he thought Don seed overly emotional.
Don, however, wasn't acting out of anger. He was focused on humiliating the Rolls-Royce driver, and he wasn't done yet. Gesturing toward the shorter man, Don let his voice be heard by everyone.
"I an, look at you. Look around," he said, his tone harsh. "Don't you feel any sha? At your age, leeching off your father like so parasite and failing to take responsibility for your own stupid actions?"
The crowd murmured again, so suppressing chuckles at Don's words.
"If you want to ruin your father's na, then I'm happy to take this to court," Don continued, his voice steady. He stepped closer, his presence looming over the now visibly uneasy driver.
"I may be, what did you say? A wannabe superhero with nothing but a few million?" Don's tone didn't waver. His eyes locked onto the driver, who looked like he wanted to shrink into the ground.
"But you can be sure," Don added, taking one final step forward, "I'll use those sa millions to make sure the entire city hears about this. Because unlike you, I can make millions again—off my own ability."
The Rolls-Royce driver's mouth opened and closed as if searching for a rebuttal, but no words ca. The crowd watched in silence, so impressed, others stunned.
Don's words hit the Rolls-Royce driver like a bucket of ice-cold water. The man's smug expression faded entirely, his features tightening as the reality of the situation began to settle in.
What had started as a theatrical show of dominance was now crumbling around him.
Don's threat—or rather, the promise in his tone—struck deep. While Don wasn't an influential powerhouse just yet, his growing reputation and financial resources were more than enough to make things ssy. Worse still, with video evidence circulating, the odds of winning any court battle were slim to none.
The driver had counted on bravado and pressure to make Don and his group back down. Now, his plan was unraveling. And with Charles Monclaire standing there, smiling faintly like so so back up, the Rolls-Royce driver realized he couldn't afford to escalate further.
He opened his mouth, likely to stamr out so kind of response, but Charles clapped his hands together suddenly, breaking the mont with a **clap-clap**.
"I think you've said enough, Don," Charles said warmly, his tone as disarming as ever. He stepped forward slightly, his glittering outfit catching the light in the process.
"If he's smart, he'll see to it that you're adequately compensated. After all…" Charles glanced around the scene, his gaze briefly settling on the murmuring crowd before returning to the Rolls-Royce driver. "…taking this to court would be bad dia for this establishnt and the people with shares in it, such as my family."
The subtle weight in Charles' words was impossible to miss.
The Rolls-Royce driver froze, his eyes darting up to Charles' face as if searching for leniency. Charles, however, maintained his calm smile as he turned his full attention to the shorter man.
Though his tone remained smooth, there was a faint edge to it as he leaned in slightly and asked, "You're not trying to tarnish my family's na… are you?"
The driver's eyes widened. He quickly shook his head, his movents almost frantic. "N-no, never, Mr. Monclaire. My family and I have nothing but respect for—"
Charles raised a hand, silencing him with the effortless grace of soone who had done this a thousand tis before. "Then I think nothing else needs to be said," he interrupted, his smile still present. "Let's not ruin such a lovely night."
The Rolls-Royce driver gulped audibly, nodding as his gaze flickered to Don for the briefest of monts. "I-I'll have my people reach out," he said weakly, his voice barely audible. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and walked briskly toward his car.
The crowd began to dissipate almost imdiately. With the matter seemingly resolved, it now felt awkward for them to linger, and the energy that had drawn them in quickly dissolved.
The spectators drifted away in clusters, their curious murmurs gradually fading as they turned their attention back to their own affairs.
The Rolls-Royce driver climbed into his car with hurried movents, his door slamming shut with a muted **thud**. Monts later, its engine purred softly as he pulled out of the spot. But instead of driving further into the parking lot, he headed straight for the exit.
Don watched the car disappear with a steady gaze, his arms crossing loosely over his chest. His expression revealed nothing, but his mind was already assessing the situation.
Beside him, Charles followed his gaze, his ever-present smile still in place. The faint glimr of amusent in his silver eyes made it impossible to tell if he had genuinely enjoyed intervening or if it had all been so calculated move.
When the Rolls-Royce was finally out of sight, Don turned his head toward Charles, eting his gaze. Charles didn't look away, instead tilting his head slightly as if waiting for Don to say sothing.
The last few stragglers from the crowd wandered off, leaving the two of them standing at the center of the now-quiet scene. The polished cars in the lot shimred faintly under the overhead lights, their glossy surfaces reflecting the two figures who remained.
Don didn't speak imdiately. He watched Charles for a mont, his critical eye taking in every detail—the easy posture, the faint smile, the way Charles carried himself like he was always two steps ahead.
Don wasn't the type to trust easily, and he doubted Charles had stepped in without expecting sothing in return.
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