The atmosphere in the courtyard of the Lacy villa shifted from mockery to a dense, suffocating hostility. The eyes of the Lacy family relatives locked onto Matthew Powell, burning with a toxicity so potent it felt as if they wanted to flay him alive, strip by strip, and devour him raw. It wasn't just annoyance anymore; it was a deep-seated, visceral hatred born of interrupted triumph.
Why was it that every single time they reached a critical juncture―a moment where the "adults" were handling business and the hierarchy was being properly established―this delusional lunatic had to step in and try to steal the spotlight? It was exhausting. It was pathetic. It was an insult to their intelligence.
"Hahahaha!" One of the cousins, a man in a cheap suit trying too hard to look expensive, let out
