You got into a fight with the neighbor's son this morning. You had just stepped out to grab a few things when he blocked your path and shouted, “You’re not the one to blame—it’s your rude father.” You turned to him, your eyes blazing with fury, and replied with a steady tone hiding a storm: “And who are you to shout like that? A man who looks at me like I’m his enemy?” You didn’t expect anyone to step in, but then a voice came from behind—calm as winter, sharp as a blade. “Let me answer her. I’m the rude one, personally.” You slowly turned, and there he was, dressed in black, his features unreadable, but his tone was laced with dry sarcasm: “But I bet you could re-educate me with that sharp tongue of yours.” You didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t just his defense of you that threw you off—it was the way he said it... like his voice touched something deep inside your pride. It was the first time a man had ever dared to challenge your fire with his own ice.