Adrien's POV
The grand ballroom held its breath. Adrien's boots were the only sound, a steady, ominous thud on the polished parquet floor as he crossed the cavernous space. Hundreds of eyes tracked him wide with shock, glazed with champagne, sharp with fear. He was a predator walking through a herd of gazelles, and they instinctively knew it.
His internal monologue was a cold, clear stream amidst the hot panic of the room. Primary target: Judge Oliver. Location: head table, 12 o'clock, thirty feet. Secondary targets: the eight boys. Location: clustered near the ice sculpture, 3 o'clock. Security: four visible, two flanking the judge, two by the main doors. Armed, hesitant. Civilians are their primary concern. Use that.
He didn't look at the gawking faces. He didn't see the jewels or the tuxedos. He saw obstacles and avenues. The parting crowd created a natural lane directly to the raised dais where Judge Oliver stood. The Judge's expression cycled from confused host to offended dignitary to, finally, recognizing the man in tactical gear from the hospital and the news. His face settled into a mask of contemptuous authority.
Chief Miller, standing to the Judge's right like a loyal attack dog, took a step forward, his hand going to his hip. "Moore! You are under arrest! Stop where you are!"
Adrien didn't break stride. Miller is noise. Ignore the noise. Focus on the mission. The two security guards at the base of the dais moved to intercept, hands inside their jackets. Adrien's pace didn't change, but his posture did a slight lowering of his center of gravity, a subtle alignment of his shoulders. It was a language they understood: I am not stopping. Try me.
The lead guard, a bulky man with a Marine haircut, put a palm out. "Sir, that's far enough"
Adrien didn't fight him. He flowed around him. A simple, fluid sidestep, his forearm brushing the guard's outstretched arm aside with just enough force to disrupt his balance. It was like moving past a clumsy child. The second guard grabbed for his vest. Adrien's left hand shot up, not in a punch, but in a sharp, open-handed strike to the man's elbow joint, numbing the nerve. The guard gasped, his arm dropping uselessly.
It took three seconds. Adrien didn't pause. He mounted the two steps to the dais.
Now he was in their sanctum. Judge Oliver, Chief Miller, a few other stunned dignitaries. The air here smelled of expensive cologne and power. Adrien's eyes locked onto the Judge's. He saw no fear there, only a furious, calculated arrogance. He still believes he's untouchable. Good. Arrogance makes mistakes.
"How dare you," Judge Oliver hissed, his voice low so the crowd wouldn't hear the tremor of rage. "This is my home. You are nothing. A broken soldier. Miller, shoot this man if he moves another inch!"
Miller drew his pistol, aiming shakily at Adrien's chest. The crowd gasped. Adrien ignored the gun. He knew Miller wouldn't fire. Not here, in front of everyone. The political fallout would be a nightmare. The gun was a prop.
Slowly, deliberately, Adrien reached into the inner pocket of his vest. Miller's finger tightened on the trigger. "Don't!"
Adrien pulled out the burner phone. He held it up, not to the crowd, but to Judge Oliver's face. "You're having a party," Adrien said, his voice a low, private rumble that carried in the dead silence. "My daughter is in a coma. Your son put her there." He glanced over to where Leo stood, frozen, his face the color of paste. "All eight of them. You know it. The Chief here knows it." He turned the phone, showing the frozen, damning image on its screen Leo's sneering face, Harper's terror.
Judge Oliver's eyes flickered to the screen, then back to Adrien's face. A vein throbbed at his temple. "A fake. A digital lie from a deranged mind."
"Is it?" Adrien asked. He then did something so simple, so profoundly disrespectful, it stole the breath from the entire room. He turned and placed the phone carefully, almost delicately, right in the center of the Judge's pristine white dessert plate. It sank slightly into a mound of chocolate mousse and raspberry coulis. The dirty, cracked plastic was a blasphemy against the fine china.
He leaned in then, close enough to smell the Judge's fear beneath the Scotch. Miller was sputtering, the gun forgotten in his hand. The guards were paralyzed. The entire world narrowed to the space between Adrien's lips and the Judge's ear.
"The wolf isn't at the door anymore, Judge," Adrien whispered, the words for him alone, a cold secret in the hot room. He let the meaning hang, let the animal truth of it sink into the man's bones. Then he delivered the final, quiet sentence, the official start of everything to come. "The wolf is home. And the hunt… has officially begun."
He straightened up, leaving the phone protruding from the dessert like a grave marker. He didn't look at Miller. He didn't look at the crowd. He held the Judge's horrified gaze for one second longer, ensuring the message was received, sealed, and understood.
Then he turned his back on them all on the gun, on the power, on the threat and walked back the way he came. The silent threat hung in the air, thicker than the gun smoke that hadn't come. He had just declared war in their own throne room, and now he had to escape the castle alive.