...
"Oh? All your money?" Yves King's hatred peaked, yet his mood turned eerily calm as he spoke with a chilling tone, indifferently lifting his foot and stepping directly onto Taylor Tilt's chest. Slowly applying pressure, he bore down little by little, seemingly releasing his hatred bit by bit. Initially, Taylor Tilt struggled instinctively, propping himself up desperately with his hands, his face turning tomato red, but the force from Yves was not something he could contend with, not even this slight excess strength. With a "snap," Taylor Tilt's hands gave out, and he collapsed to the ground. Yves leaned forward, his foot relentlessly crushing down on the chest. The old fox lay powerless, turning his face to the side, eyes shut, gasping for air in big, laborious breaths.