Ebilade paused mid-step, his body stiffening as the words from the stranger hit him. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a fleeting moment, his usually confident demeanor seemed to falter. Letting out a deep sigh, he ran a hand through his neatly styled hair, messing it slightly, before straightening his posture. The weight of the situation pressed on his broad shoulders, evident in the slight slouch of his stance.
"Alright, you win," he said, his voice low and resigned as he turned to face the stranger. His steps were deliberate, measured—each one seeming to carry a mix of reluctant acceptance and the lingering tension of suppressed anger. When he reached the stranger, he stopped, exhaling through his nose as though releasing the last bit of resistance. He turned back toward his brother Ebipade and Gregory, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he wanted to say more but thought better of it.