“Is your painting worth two hundred thousand? I can draw better with my feet!" Forrest struggled, but failed. “Let go of me!"

“What? You haven't learned your lesson yet?" The bald man fixed Forrest with a stern gaze, his warning clear. "You'd better behave yourself."

Camila, too, implored Forrest to remain silent.

However, Forrest, steadfast in his stance, retorted, "I'm telling the truth. It's a lame painting. Asking for two hundred thousand dollars?

What was the difference between these guys and robbers?"

Isaac's expression turned icy as he glanced sharply at Forrest, his look conveying frustration over the trouble Forrest had caused.

Realizing his predicament, Forrest ceased his protests, pursing his Lips into silence.

Painting was an art.

Understanding that the value of art was subjective and not easily quantified, Isaac decided not to engage in a pointless argument.

Resigned, he signed a check for two hundred thousand dollars.

Camila, concerned, reminded him in a hushed tone, "This isn't the work of a renowned artist."

She knew that while it might be art, the value of such works often hinged on the creator's fame.

This painting, lacking any celebrity association, hardly justified its purported value.

If it didn't circulate in the market, it wouldn't be of any value.

She feared that Isaac's wealth was being needlessly squandered.

Isaac gave her a reassuring look. “I'll handle it."

Trusting his judgment, Camila chose not to press further.

“Release him," Isaac commanded the bald man.

Upon receiving the payment, the bald man instructed his men to free Forrest.

Forrest approached them, his gait unsteady, his face marred by visible injuries. Camila and Isaac couldn't determine if he had sustained further harm.