"Klaus, the next time we meet, I'll clip those wings of yours," Miguel spat, his eyes burning with anger. He had been glaring at Klaus the entire night, waiting for the moment to strike with his words. Well, he couldn't with his fist.
The ball had been nothing short of a disaster for Miguel. He had arrived with high hopes, and dreams of outshining everyone. But instead, Klaus had shattered those hopes, leaving him humiliated and broken. The defeat was personal, a wound that festered with hatred. This kind of anger was not something that would fade easily; it had taken root deep in his heart, like a heart devil.
Klaus met Miguel's gaze calmly. He wasn't surprised by his anger, he caused it after all. He had expected it. Rivals like Miguel always surfaced when someone started to rise. They couldn't stand seeing others succeed where they had failed.
