Minjae's fingers froze mid-motion, gripping the washcloth tighter. Calmly, he shook his head, giving a soft, polite denial. But Bram didn't seem to get it.
"Oh, come now," Bram pressed, closing the distance. "Surely it's easier with… help. I don't bite."
Minjae's chest tightened.
He should not voice his anger, should not give away even a flicker of annoyance. But the man was deliberate, pressing forward with every step, his hands brushing closer than propriety—or decency—allowed.
It took everything Minjae had to keep quiet, to force the polite nod, the lowered eyes.
And then… Bram's hand caught the edge of his sleeve.
Enough.
The world narrowed.
His heartbeat spiked.
He grabbed the nearest piece of wood, heavy and unassuming, the kind used for scrubbing stalls or splitting fire. In one precise motion, he struck.
Bram's grin faltered.
Shock registered before the thud of impact silenced the room.
The man crumpled, unconscious, sprawled across the cold stone floor.
