Heath chuckled, his lips curling despite the blood crusting at the edge of his mouth. "Oh, is that so? Then tell me, Leon—if you weren't as strong as you are now, wouldn't you have done the same? Used others like pawns to survive?"
Leon's expression didn't shift at first. He simply stared back, unblinking, cold.
"You think I was born with ★★★★ stamped on my back?" Leon finally said, voice low. "You think someone handed me this strength like a wrapped gift?"
Heath opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He knew that tone. That weight in Leon's voice wasn't boasting—it was resentment. Grit. Pain forged over time.
Leon stepped closer, eyes narrowed.
"Don't act like you're some tragic figure in all this," he said. "You're not miserable. You're not a victim. You're just a coward who found comfort in stepping on corpses."
