Michael leans against the cold brick wall of the St. Dominic’s underground hallway, the dim fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The faint hum of distant chatter and the sharp clack of footsteps echo down the corridor, but Michael barely flinches—his dark eyes scanning the room with a focus that never wavers. His hands are tucked deep into the pockets of his red uniform blazer, fingers twitching just slightly.

The air smells faintly of gambling cards and stale sweat, thick with tension—the kind that clings to skin before a high-stakes game begins. Michael exhales slowly, his breath visible in the cold air, and lets his gaze drift over the players gathered in the gambling room, already locked in loud battles of wills. He doesn’t join the chaos—not out of fear, but choice. he prefers to watch, wait, and strike only when the time is right.

"Gosh.."