The room remains still for a moment, as if the sudden violence has drained the air itself, leaving everyone frozen in stunned silence.
There are seven men in total. Three of them are roughly Ryoma's size, the Frenchman and two others in tailored suits who look more like professionals than street enforcers.
The remaining four are built like heavyweights whose presence alone is meant to intimidate. One of those giants is currently hunched against the door, clutching his shoulder where the joint has just been violently dislocated.
Sweat already beads along his temple as he tries to steady his breathing, his useless arm hanging at an awkward angle.
The other three heavyset men remain standing around the room like silent pillars. Yet Ryoma shows no sign of fear.
If anything, the quiet confidence in his posture feels almost like a challenge, an unspoken invitation for them to try their luck if they truly believe they can stop him here.
