Quincy Sterling trembled uncontrollably. "I... I..."
Just then, Damian Fairchild picked up a fruit knife from the coffee table.
He ran his thumb along the sharp blade, the cold glint in his phoenix eyes reflected on its surface, terrifying Quincy Sterling even more.
"I... can't say." After a long moment of stammering, Quincy Sterling finally choked out the words. "Mr. Fairchild, please don't force me... AHH—"
As Quincy Sterling screamed, the fruit knife Damian Fairchild had been toying with grazed her cheek, flew through the air with a WHOOSH, and embedded itself firmly in a dartboard not far away.
Terrified, Quincy Sterling touched her cheek, her palm coming away sticky.
She pulled her hand away and stared. It was blood!
"I haven't played darts in a long time. I'm a bit rusty."
"And on top of that, I'm not in a very good mood..."
Damian Fairchild rose and walked over to Quincy Sterling, who was now so frightened she had collapsed onto the floor.
