They waited in a cell for what seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes, apparently. Miles spent the entire time glaring at the idiot who had been stupid enough to kill someone without covering his tracks. And it turns out he killed an elite of all people. Why did he ever join these guys to begin with? As they were walking to the throne room, Miles looked every which way for an escape, but it seemed like the guards knew what he had been thinking, as they speedily blocked every escape route possible. He mumbled angry curses, not bothering to keep them under his breath, as they walked through the door.

"Such idiots. You know that? Complete and total idiots. You shouldn't even call yourselves a "gang"! Not even a group! Just stupid, idiotic, naive thugs. I can't believe I even stayed with you guys..." he ranted on, earning some looks from both the idiots and the guards.

He looked up at who he presumed was the Prince. Prince...something or other. Miles couldn't be bothered to remember names of people he wouldn't meet. Or at least, people he hoped he wouldn't meet. He didn't look at him long though--despite the Prince's admittedly good looks--soon his dark eyes zoomed right back to the entrance of the room, hoping that maybe there would be an escape at one point. He would not be put into jail because of someone else's mess up. Sure, he wasn't the one who killed the stupid girl, but he had killed, stolen, and other things before. It was enough for anyone to send him to jail. That is, anyone who knew. He hoped that people wouldn't know because his name was really only known within the gangs, and nowhere else. It was like a silent promise that no one ratted out another.

He had been trying to do it discreetly, but apparently one of the guard had seem him and cut off his view of the door...again. Giving a long sigh, the smallest boy of the group crossed his arms, his glaring eyes sliding back towards the prince.

"This is all your fault, idiot," he mumbled towards the taller man beside him, the man who had killed.

Quite frankly, Miles didn't care if he used "proper" language in the palace. He didn't even care about looking proper, which was painfully obvious with his stance. Arms crossed, one knee slightly bent, glaring, muttering, and just plain dirty.

"I get it already," the man sounded truly terrified.

Hell, Miles was sure he sounded at least a tad scared too. He didn't want to be sent to jail, he'd been avoiding it for so long, and now it was all screwed up because he chose the wrong "gang" to join.

I just hope they don't know about anything else I've done, or else I'm definitely going to the cellar. he thought bitterly, his glare intensifying.