Creed stood perfectly still, his eyes locked onto the old man in front of him, every muscle in his body humming with tension like a coiled spring.
His face was calm—cold, even—but inside, his thoughts were a chaotic mess of confused disbelief and hilarious suspicions.
Knitting? The guy had just shadow-stepped into his personal space, nearly gave him a heart attack, and now he was talking about knitting socks?
Creed's mind raced with absurd theories.
Is "knitting" some kind of assassin code? Like… knit one, stab two?
Maybe he's hiding poisoned threads in his yarn and uses his needles like hidden weapons? Or maybe he weaves spirit threads that manipulate fate and destiny?
Wait. Is this some kind of metaphor? "Knitting" could mean spying, stalking, or soul binding.
'Crap, this is just like that one ancient sect that used "flower gardening" as code for necromancy. What if this guy literally knits people's souls into scarves?!'
