Before he could finish speaking, the blond man's arm was twisted by another man, who then pressed close to his face, his hot breath assaulting him: "Do I need to repeat myself?"
Each word was cold to the bone; the blond had never seen such emotionless eyes before, deep like a chilling, ancient pool.
Swallowing hard, the blond was still defiant, but his tone had gained a tremble: "Why should we leave on your say-so?! Who do you think you are? We're not going anywhere. What can you do about it? Kill us?"
Kill them? These small-time hooligans didn't even qualify to be personally dispatched by him.
He also didn't have the time.
Huo Zhenyang's long fingers let go, and the blond breathed a sigh of relief, his back drenched in cold sweat, only to see him pull out a small booklet from his chest, take out a gold-plated pen, write a number in the booklet, tear it out, and stuff it into his chest pocket.
