Chapter 3: The Wrath of the Protector and the Collapsing Table
Marcus did not walk; he moved with the terrifying, controlled acceleration of a freight train. The heavy thud of his boots against the marble floor echoed like the ticking of an executioner's clock.
Ethan turned around, his arrogant smirk instantly shattering into shards of stark, unadulterated panic as the massive man closed the distance between them with impossible speed.
"W-Who the hell are you?" Ethan stammered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak as he tried to back away. "Security! Get this lunatic out of—"
Marcus didn't give him a chance to finish the sentence.
With blinding, explosive speed, Marcus closed the final gap. He didn't waste time on a warning or a negotiation. He drew back his right arm, muscles bunching under the dark coat, and delivered a devastating, lightning-fast punch directly into Ethan’s jaw.
CRACK.
The sound of the impact echoed through the grand dining hall like a gunshot. The sheer force of the blow lifted Ethan entirely off his feet. He careened backward through the air like a ragdoll, crashing violently onto the long formal dining table.
The heavy mahogany table shuddered under the sudden impact. Fine crystal glassware shattered into a thousand glittering diamonds; porcelain plates cracked into shards; silver silverware rattled violently against the linen; and the elaborate centerpiece of white orchids and red roses was crushed beneath Ethan’s body, sending petals flying into the air like red snow.
Even the small US flag resting on its polished brass stand trembled violently from the shockwave of the collision, its fabric rippling as if caught in a sudden hurricane.
Ethan lay sprawled across the ruined banquet table among the shattered china and spilled wine, utterly incapacitated. Blood gushed freely from his nose and split lip, staining his pristine white dress shirt a violent, spreading crimson. His dark blue suit jacket was ripped at the seam, and his expensive cream tie hung limply over the edge of the table, soaked in red wine.
The arrogant, untouchable heir to the Sterling empire was now a bleeding, whimpering wreck.
He raised a trembling, blood-slicked hand to his face, staring up at the towering figure of Marcus standing over him. The pain was secondary to the sheer, existential terror gripping his soul.
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"Who... who are you?" Ethan choked out, coughing up a mouthful of blood as he stared up into the cold, dead-eyed gaze of the man who had just dismantled his world in a single second.
Marcus didn't answer immediately. He slowly rolled up his left sleeve, revealing thick, corded forearms, and reached down toward the wreckage of the table.
