Two days later, the marble steps of the federal courthouse in Washington D.C. were overrun. A sea of news vans, satellite trucks, and hundreds of journalists crushed against the police barricades.
The Department of Justice had leaked that they'd formally summoned Reaper to court, and every major network on the planet wanted the scoop.
Near the front of the barricades, a small group of freezing reporters huddled together, sipping lukewarm coffee, discussing the absurdity of it all.
"I'm just saying, if I had that much power, I wouldn't care about any of this," a veteran reporter muttered, blowing into his hands.
"Look at regular billionaires. Corporate guys swindle hundreds of millions, declare bankruptcy, walk away without following the normal rules. If regular rich people don't respect the court, why would a guy who can vaporize a city block bother?"
"Because the government's trying to make an example out of him," a younger journalist argued, checking her watch.
"The DOJ issued a strict federal mandate — he surrenders today or he's officially an enemy of the state."
"Yeah, well, the Department of Justice can't punch a hole in a city," the veteran reporter snorted.
"This whole thing's a political stunt. If this Reaper guy actually shows up today, hires a lawyer, and sits on a wooden bench like a regular civilian, I'll eat my microphone."
Just as the words left his mouth, the air pressure at the bottom of the courthouse steps dropped.
A faint grey hum vibrated through the concrete, and the reporters stopped talking, turning their cameras toward the empty pavement.
The space warped into a cyclone of ash-grey energy, whipping coats and sending coffee cups skittering across the concrete. Journalists stumbled back, shielding their faces.
The vortex collapsed into silence, and Daniel stepped onto the pavement.
He stood there, unbothered by the cameras and the armed federal guards at the top of the stairs. He brushed his shoulder and locked eyes with the veteran reporter.
"So," Daniel said into the silence. "Which microphone do you prefer to eat?"
The reporter froze, looked at the microphone in his hand, then back at Daniel.
The cameras pivoted, catching the exact moment Reaper answered his federal summons by asking a journalist about his dietary preferences.
The silence broke. The crowd surged forward, shoving a dozen microphones at his face.
"Reaper! Why did you come today?"
"What is your opinion on the government's mandate?"
"Are you here to surrender?"
Daniel didn't flinch. The veteran reporter opened his mouth to shout another question, but Daniel raised a hand, casually shutting down the noise. He ignored the men entirely and pointed at the younger female journalist holding a notepad.
"Ladies first," he said with a small smile. "And men never."
She blinked, surprised, and shoved her recorder forward. "Reaper, are you here to pay the five hundred million dollars, or are you submitting to the military tribunal?"
"Neither," Daniel said. "I just came to see if the government was actually stupid enough to send me a bill for saving their lives."
Before she could follow up, a harsh voice cut through the noise from the top of the steps.
"Reaper!" A man in a crisp federal suit stood behind the line of security guards, megaphone raised. "Step away from the press! Keep your hands where we can see them!"
The guards raised their rifles, aiming at Daniel's chest. The reporters scattered, backing away to avoid the crossfire.
Daniel didn't move. He looked up the stairs at the agent.
"You have two options," the agent barked through the megaphone. "Surrender to this court, or be taken by force."
Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets. "I have a third option. I walk up those stairs, and you all pretend you never saw me."
He dropped the polite act.
"Because trust me — the second you pull a trigger, I consider it a formal declaration of war. And I eliminate my enemies."
"If you fire, this entire country becomes my enemy. You could drop every nuclear warhead on the planet on my head and I'd still be standing. What exactly do you think a rifle's going to do?"
The agent froze. A sharp voice barked through his earpiece — an order from Washington.
"Stand down!" the agent shouted. "Weapons down! Clear a path!"
The guards hesitated a split second, then slowly lowered their rifles, shuffling backward to leave a wide, clear path to the courthouse doors.
Daniel started up the marble stairs, footsteps echoing in the dead silence of the plaza. Halfway up, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder at the cameras, the reporters, the tense soldiers.
"And this is for all of you," he said, grey eyes sweeping the crowd. "Enjoy today. Because next time I have to come out here, you won't find me this polite. Next time, I might just kill everyone."
He turned and walked into the courthouse. The doors clicked shut behind him.
Outside, the silence didn't break with a rush of questions. It broke with a collective gasp for air.
Every reporter, cameraman, and armed guard realized they'd stopped breathing. A suffocating pressure lingered in the plaza, the phantom sensation of a cold scythe resting against their throats.
They finally understood — if a few casual words from him could physically paralyze a crowd, the reality of him taking actual action was unimaginable.
The cameras kept rolling, but the people holding them just stared at the empty courthouse steps, all thinking the same thing.
Is the government really this stupid?
*****
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