The photographer's chest moving up and down faster. His eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, but there was none.
"W-What?" he stammered, his voice almost like a whisper.
Eryx took another step forward, his presence suffocating. "I asked you," he repeated, slow and clearly, "which hand touched my wife?"
Lunara's grip on his sleeve tightened. This was escalating too fast. "Mr. Grantham," she whispered, trying to pull him back. "It's done. Let's go."
But Eryx wasn't listening. His eyes remained locked onto the trembling man in front of him.
The photographer hesitated before slowly raising his right hand, fingers trembling. "I-It was just—"
Eryx didn't let him finish. In a swift motion, he grabbed the man's wrist, his grip was painfully tight. A sharp gasp filled the room as Eryx twisted it just enough for pain to shoot up the man's arm.
The photographer yelped, his legs gave out. "I-I'm sorry! I swear! It won't happen again!"
