"A kitchen knife?"Liam turned to look at him, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Why do you need a kitchen knife for? This is an office building."

Neville’s gaze turned towards him and said carefully, "Don’t you remember? I am also responsible for feeding the kids in this building."

He pulled up Sarah’s message thread and turned the holographic screen towards Liam so he could see. Sarah had sent no fewer than fifteen messages over the past three days, each one more enthusiastic than the last about what she had dubbed "Neville’s Diner."

The most recent message included a mock-up logo she had designed. It was Neville’s chibi form with his big nerdy glasses, holding a steaming plate of food with the tagline of "Hope’s Home Cooking: Worth Every Star Coin!"

Liam’s eyebrows rose as he read through the messages and nodded in understanding.

Liam then said, "I heard the app was already completed. Can I order later?"

Neville felt that this question was slightly unexpected, but still explained.

"I still have pending orders," he admitted, showing off the requests that the pending orders officially logged yesterday. "I will complete it tomorrow at the latest."

"Got it." Liam nodded with a slight smile.

Both Neville and Liam ignored Killian and everyone around them. He felt as if his accusations were nothing to them. Killian’s shoulders began to tremble, his breathing ragged. Something inside him was about to snap.

"You—!" Killian blurted.

"What is going on here?" A deep, clearly displeased voice was heard.

Every head in the scene turned toward the direction of the voice.

Then Grayson entered with Bryan and another man, whom Neville didn’t recognize. His eyes swept across the scene, assessing it.

"Julius," Grayson called, and the man named Julius nodded.

Julius turned his sharp gaze toward the guards and instantly understood the situation. It was clearly written on his face that he would have an unpleasant conversation with these people.

It didn’t matter that the main team was busy; they should never slack off on their jobs. Look at this mess.

The security guards snapped to attention and frantically moved forward.

"Mr. Hewitt, Mr. Sergie," one of them said stiffly, moving to put himself between Mick and Neville physically. "Please step back. You’re obstructing Maxwell Corporation’s front entrance."

But Grayson’s attention wasn’t on Mick’s side. Despite the obvious commotion, his eyes locked onto Neville. More specifically, onto Neville’s disheveled appearance and his closeness to the man beside him, Liam. He was unable to look away from the way Liam stood close enough to Neville that their shoulders almost touched.

Neville also stared at Grayson, reading his expression. But as always, he was unreadable, yet he felt like he was in danger. He tilted his head as a gesture to convey his confusion without words.

Did he do something wrong?

Grayson’s jaw tightened. Then, he deliberately turned his gaze away, refocusing on Mick, making the scene several degrees colder.

"What are you doing here?" Grayson asked indifferently.

Mick didn’t hesitate. The second his eyes locked onto Grayson, something snapped inside him—rage, desperation, or both. His breath came out in ragged bursts, and before anyone could stop him, he simply lunged at Grayson.

"Young Master!" Killian’s shout cut through the air, but it was too late.

It was the kind of reckless, thoughtless attack born of pure emotion. When Mick launched himself at Grayson, his hands tried to reach for Grayson’s throat—and it failed miserably.

Not only did Grayson not panic, but his expression didn’t even change. He just watched his spectacle with a calm and almost bored expression. Just as Mick’s hands were about to close around his throat, Grayson shifted his weight, sidestepped, and caught Mick’s wrist mid-air.

The sound was sharp, a dry click of bone and tendon.

Mick’s body went weightless for a second before slamming into the ground. The impact was brutal, echoing across the wide, empty lobby.

"You—!" A strangled grunt tore from Mick’s throat.

Air left his lungs in a wheeze. He tried to move, to rise, but Grayson’s boot pinned his shoulder down.

"Still so impulsive," Grayson said quietly.

"Shut up!" Mick spat, his voice raw. He twisted under the pressure, veins standing out along his neck.

Grayson tilted his head, eyes cold.

Killian narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He didn’t wait for his young master to fall before he moved.

But Julius was faster.

Julius’s hand shot out, hooking around Killian’s waist and yanking him back. It looked almost casual, but it was hard to pull that motion. Killian’s momentum was cut short, his arm caught in an iron grip.

"Let go," Killian hissed, muscles straining.

"Then just stop struggling," Julius murmured beside his ear, tone calm but sharp. "You’ll make it even worse for your young master."

Killian jerked against him once, testing the hold. Julius didn’t budge.

Mick was still pinned under Grayson’s boot, glaring up with defiance that refused to surrender.

"You think this makes you right?" Mick growled. "You’re no different from me!"

Grayson’s boot lifted. He stepped back slowly, letting Mick drag in a breath.

Grayson looked around and saw that there weren’t any other people with Mick.

He nodded as if he understood something and asked again, "What are you doing here?"

Mick spat his spit and said, catching his breath, "What do you think?!"

Grayson’s expression didn’t change. If anything, the frost in his eyes deepened. "Did your brother not tell you anything?"

"What do you mean? Ah!" Mick struggled to sit up, and Neville caught the flash of genuine confusion beneath the anger. "You mean to stay? I’m not a dog. Moreover, not his dog. How can I stay put and let him put a leash on me as he takes away everything! Am I an idiot or what? Listening to that bastard would be the end of me!"

The outburst painted a picture that Neville was rapidly piecing together.

So it was a family drama. What has that got to do with him?! Why is he throwing his weight around here? Is this Mick an idiot or what?