"Who—who the hell are you!!?" the drunk old man slurred, his voice trembling now as he scrambled backward on the filthy couch, trying to push himself away with stubby legs that wouldn't obey. But Leonardo's eyes — cold, sharp, and almost bored, pinned him like a bug under glass.
Leonardo didn't bother to answer. He just tilted his head slightly, his jaw tightening as his eyes swept over the half-empty bottles, the broken furniture, the stained carpet. His gaze turned razor-sharp when he spotted a small mark on the wall — a child's old scribble half-scratched out. Maybe hers.
In the next heartbeat, he stepped forward. His polished shoes crushed a beer can underfoot with a dull crunch. The uncle flinched — too slow.
With one gloved hand, Leonardo grabbed a handful of the old man's greasy hair. He yanked him off the couch like he weighed nothing, dragging him up until the man's feet barely scraped the floor.
