Revenge of The Furtive Billionaire Heir

74. Coward.

This is the first time in my life that I’ve made a bunch of men about my age look so damned frightened of me. I don’t know what I look like exactly. But I’m aware that my teeth are borne, and my hands are clutched around the bag of cans in my arms as if I’m ready to hurl it at any unfortunate target any moment now. I’m right in the little group’s leader’s face, and he stares at me with wide eyes. I know that I’m lighter than them, but at the same time, my body had inadvertently fallen into the offensive position I learned at the Adrenaline Rush club which seems like ages ago.

I’m breathing hard and I feel ready to pounce. At that moment, I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty and wipe the floor with everyone trying to get on my damn nerves.

But of course, bullies are often cowards.

“Fine, we believe you,” Manager Paul’s, whose last name always keeps escaping me, son backs away, gulping. So are his friends, “just stay away from our property.”

Perhaps I should have listened to Oliver when