Jason's sudden, massive surge of killing intent instantly froze the two burly men who were tossing Ethan's life onto the floor. Their laughter died in their throats, replaced by a primal, cold fear. They were just hired muscle, not built for genuine menace, and they stopped instantly.
The Landlord, a mountain of sweat and cheap cotton, was still too focused on his own bellowing to notice the shift in the atmosphere.
"What are you idiots doing?! Get that junk moving! This place needs to be ready by tomorrow! I said—"
"I'd suggest you stop talking," Ethan's voice cut through the noise. It wasn't loud, but it was dangerously calm and carried the full weight of a person who had stopped playing games.
The Landlord, red-faced and yelling, finally turned. He squinted at Ethan, failing to recognize the refined, expensive suit. "Who the hell are you? Get out of my hall! Can't you see I'm working? If you're a friend of that deadbeat Ethan, you can take his trash—"
