One of the boys, emboldened by the group's success, walked toward Ross with a smug grin on his face.
It was Franco—young, fit, always loud, always pushing his luck.
He lifted the empty rice cooker in one hand and the soup pot in the other, shaking both.
"Hey, Big D," Franco called with a mock-sweet tone.
"Time for dinner, my guy! Oh wait… it's all gone! Guess you'll just have to eat in your dreams tonight."
He tilted the pot theatrically. Not a drop of soup was left. "Damn, even the steam's gone. We really cleaned up."
A few people laughed. Nervous, unsure, but laughter nonetheless.
"Don't waste your breath, Franco," Trevor said from behind him, arms crossed, his tone dismissive. "Big Dumb ain't worth the calories. Let the dog starve."
But as soon as the words left his mouth, Ross moved.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't glare.
He just stood up.
The tension in the room snapped taut.
