The night air was still, broken only by the faint hiss of lantern flames licking against glass.
The gravel crunched under Jet Ashborne's boots as he stepped forward, his shadow stretching long in the flickering glow. His eyes, sharp and storm-grey, bored into Draco like he wanted to peel away every layer of his being.
"How," Jet began, his voice low but taut with restrained intensity, "were you able to stack so many D-H… even if they were Rank 1?"
Draco regarded him calmly, his posture loose, hands tucked into his pockets.
His azure gaze, half-lidded, gave away nothing.
"I'm under no obligation to tell you," Draco replied, his tone flat, dismissive, as though Jet's question were nothing more than a leaf drifting past him in the wind.
Jet's jaw tightened.
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. For a moment, it looked as though he might lash out then and there. But instead, he ground his teeth and spoke through gritted restraint.