After a long while.
Seeing that he could not make Angel change his mind, Oleg finally gave up the argument and let out a soft sigh.
After sighing, Oleg said nothing. He seemed to lower his head, pondering something.
Angel noticed Oleg's change as well. He knew that what came next was likely the real matter at hand; before this, they had merely traded blows in appearances. Yet no matter how thoroughly one polished the surface, one could never obtain what lay beneath.
And to get at what lay beneath, one had to tear off the false skin of disguise.
In other words, the conversation to come might not remain so peaceful...
Sure enough, when Oleg raised his brows again, the restraint in his expression had vanished. What flowed beneath his eyes was a kind of coldness... an exceptionally deep coldness.
Before, when he looked at Angel, there had still been a measure of "courtesy." Whether for Sypolov's sake or Laplace's, he had at least shown some respect.
But now, the way he looked at Angel was no different from how he looked at a stranger... or rather, a stranger he found somewhat repulsive.
At the same time, a certain bloodthirsty aura that he had deliberately suppressed before came surging forth.
Now, as Angel faced Oleg, he saw not only that burly figure amid mottled light and shadow, but also an unseen, unheard roaring blood aura hidden in the darkness, one that pressed down with overwhelming force.
He was being rejected.
Angel could clearly sense that feeling of rejection. Perhaps Oleg was deliberately displaying it, or perhaps it was a calculated measure of control. Either way, it did not matter much to Angel. What mattered now was that, having assumed such a posture, how did Oleg intend to "talk"? And