"Your kid's music is annoying," Trent sneered, stepping aggressively into my personal space. He smelled heavily of cheap cologne and pre-workout powder. "I handled it. You got an issue with that, old man?"
My heart rate didn’t even flutter. When you’ve had a laser sight dance across your chest in a lightless compound in Helmand Province, an angry teenager in sweatpants doesn’t exactly trigger your fight-or-flight response.
"Trent, right?" I said softly. "I’m David. This is my property. If you ever touch my vehicle or step toward my daughter again, we’re going to have a serious misunderstanding. Go home."
Trent scoffed, puffing his chest out. When he realized I wasn’t flinching, he backed off with a dismissive laugh. "Whatever, boomer. Watch your back."
A professional operator knows that the best fight is the one that never happens. Unfortunately, Trent took my calm demeanor as cowardice. In his world, real men screamed, postured, and threw things. Because I didn’t shout, he assumed I was weak.