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Without a flicker of hesitation, without even a change in his breathing, Michael spun on his heel and hurled the heavy glass directly at Keith's head with terrifying, major-league velocity.
Keith shrieked, diving sideways into the couch cushions.
SMASH.
The glass bypassed Keith's ear by a fraction of an inch and exploded against the drywall behind him in a violent shower of sharp glass.
The living room descended into absolute, suffocating silence.
The ringing of the shattered glass echoed in the air.
Keith was shaking violently on the couch, his face entirely drained of blood.
Madeline was frozen in pure horror, her mouth hanging open in a silent scream.
Michael stood at the edge of the kitchen, his arm dropping to his side.
The aura radiating off him was utterly suffocating.
He wasn't the boy who wrote romance novels, and he wasn't the teenager they used to bully.
He was an apex predator looking at cornered rats.
"Sit down," Michael commanded.
His voice wasn't a shout.
It was a low, absolute decree that demanded immediate submission.
Keith scrambled upright, pressing his back hard against the couch, too terrified to even breathe loudly.
Terry and Janet ran into the doorway of the living room, their eyes wide with shock.
Michael simply raised a single hand, his palm flat, silencing them before they could speak.
"Food," Michael repeated to his mother, his gaze never leaving his uncle.
Janet, looking at her son's unblinking, dominant stare, silently hurried to the kitchen and brought out two plates of food, placing them on the coffee table.
Ten Minutes Later.
The only sound in the living room for ten agonizing minutes was the clinking of silverware.
Michael and Evans ate their food methodically, completely uninterrupted.
Madeline and Keith sat rigidly on the couch, sweating through their clothes, absolutely terrified to make a sound.
Michael swallowed his last bite of chicken.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked at Terry.
"The marinade is incredible, Dad. Seriously, you have to write the recipe down for me."
"I'll... I'll text it to you, son," Terry said, still slightly in awe of the sheer command his son held over the room.
Michael set his napkin down.
The warmth instantly vanished from his face.
He slowly turned his head, locking his dark, emotionless eyes onto his aunt and uncle.
"Why are you here?" Michael asked.
Madeline swallowed hard.
She desperately tried to hide her fear and disgust, stretching her lips into a ghastly, trembling smile.
"Well, Michael... we just wanted to see you," Madeline said, her voice shaking slightly.
She tried to employ her cheap sweet-talking again, looking around the room. "We saw how successful you've become. It's just incredible. And we know you must feel so... isolated. Living with Janet and Terry. I mean, Terry is a neg-nice enough man, but he's not exactly our pedigree, is he? He's not blood. He doesn't understand the Wuntch excellence. We wanted to be here to support you."
Terry didn't even blink at the racist, classist undertone.
He just crossed his arms, looking at them like they were insects.
Michael's eyes narrowed a fraction of a millimeter.
"Shut the fuck up," Michael said. The words cut through the room like a scythe. "I will ask you one last time. Why. Are. You. Here."
Keith, realizing the sweet-talking was a spectacular failure, let his greed override his fear. He leaned forward, wiping a fleck of spittle from the corner of his mouth.
"We want what we are owed, boy," Keith grunted, his eyes flashing with desperate hunger. "Your father was your aunt's brother. We are your family. You are out there giving away fortunes to strangers in third-world countries! We want our cut."
"How much?" Michael asked smoothly.
Keith practically drooled. "One million. One million dollars. It's pocket change to you!"
"Are you out of your minds?!" Janet exploded, stepping forward. "You aren't getting a single cent from my son!"
"Get out of my house!" Terry roared, taking a step toward the couch.
Michael raised his hand.
Once again, absolute, pin-drop silence fell over the room.
Michael looked at Keith, his expression completely blank.
"Very well," Michael said softly.
Madeline gasped in delight. Keith's face split into a victorious, hideous grin.
Michael stood up smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.
He looked over at his manager, who was watching the scene with narrowed eyes.
"Evans. With me in the kitchen," Michael ordered seamlessly. "We need to discuss the liquid funds and prepare the cheque."
Evans, playing along flawlessly, stood up. "Right behind you, boss."
They walked into the kitchen, out of sight of the living room.
Evans leaned against the counter, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"Are you seriously going to give these parasites a million dollars?" Evans asked, his brow furrowed in disbelief.
Michael stood by the kitchen island.
The dark, cold aura around him didn't dissipate; it sharpened into something deeply calculating.
He looked at Evans, his eyes completely dead.
"Give me the cheque book," Michael whispered coldly. "Start taking a video when I give them the cheque and call the police."