Adrien's POV
The service entrance was a steel door set into a recessed alcove on the east side of the mansion, hidden from the main drive by a towering hedge of boxwood. A single, weak bulb above it cast a piss-yellow pool of light. As Adrien watched from the tree line, a kitchen worker in stained whites stumbled out, fumbling for a cigarette. The door swung shut behind him, but not before Adrien saw it didn't latch just a simple mechanical lock that engaged when closed. Amateur.
The worker lit his cigarette, took two deep drags, then tossed it and went back inside. The door clicked shut. Adrien gave it a thirty-count, then moved. He was across the manicured lawn in seconds, a darting shadow. He pressed himself into the alcove, the cold stone at his back. From a pouch on his vest, he pulled a slender set of lock picks. He didn't need them. He tested the handle. It turned. Unlocked. They're so sure of their safety they don't even lock the servants' door. The arrogance was a vulnerability he could taste.
He slipped inside, into a narrow, fluorescent-lit hallway that reeked of garlic, grease, and industrial cleaner. The distant clatter of pans and shouted orders echoed from ahead. He moved past a stack of empty crates, past a laundry room steaming with heat. The corridor T-boned into a wider, carpeted hallway. To the left, the noise of the kitchen. To the right, the muted sound of a string quartet and the murmur of a crowd. The ballroom.
He went right, staying close to the wall. The carpet was plush, swallowing the sound of his boots. He passed closed doors a study, a library, a billiard room. The opulence was staggering, a museum of wealth. Every painting, every piece of gilt furniture, felt like a brick in the wall separating the people in this house from the people in the hospital on the hill.
Ahead, the hallway opened into a grand marble foyer. He could see the front doors, massive and ornate. A wide staircase swept upward. And to his left, through a soaring archway, was the ballroom. He could see the edge of the crowd the flash of sequins, the black and white of tuxedos. The music was clearer now, something classical and soulless.
He needed a vantage point, a moment to observe, to locate his primary target: Judge Oliver. And the secondary target: Leo. He spotted a door ajar across the foyer. A coat check, currently unmanned. He slipped inside. It was a small room, lined with racks heavy with fur coats and cashmere wraps. The smell of perfume was cloying. From here, through the crack in the door, he had a diagonal view into a portion of the ballroom.
He saw the judge immediately. Warren Oliver held court near a massive fireplace, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was a tall man, with a patrician handsomeness that had begun to sag into jowls. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes, which were the cold gray of a winter sea. He was surrounded by sycophants men in expensive suits, women hanging on his every word. The Chief of Police, Miller, stood at his elbow, laughing too loudly at something the judge said. The sight of them together, comfortable and powerful, sent a fresh wave of cold fury through Adrien's veins.
Then he saw Leo. The boy was holding a bottle of champagne, pouring it recklessly into the glasses of his laughing friends. He was the picture of careless privilege, his blond hair perfectly tousled, his tuxedo probably worth more than Adrien's truck. He nudged one of his friends and pointed at a passing waitress, making a crude comment that made his circle roar with laughter. The same laugh from the video.
Adrien's hand went to the inner pocket of his vest. The burner phone was there, a hard, cold rectangle. The video was on it. The truth was in his pocket, while a lie in a tuxedo held a champagne bottle twenty yards away.
His original plan to hack into their network, to anonymously broadcast the video seemed cowardly now. Too distant. Too safe. These people lived in a world of whispers and hidden deals. They needed a shock. They needed to see the consequence of their corruption walk into their temple.
He thought of Harper, small and broken in her hospital bed. He thought of the ventilator's hiss, the only sound in her world. He looked at the glittering crowd, at their easy smiles. They're celebrating. They think they've won.
A new plan, stark and simple, formed in his mind. It was a tactic from the manual: direct action. Shock and awe. Don't just show them the video. Make them experience the intrusion. Make them feel, for one second, the fear Harper felt.
He checked his gear. The flashbang was a heavy, cylindrical weight in his hand. He wouldn't use it in the crowded room too much risk to innocents. But he had other tools. He had his voice. He had the video. And he had the absolute certainty of a man with nothing left to lose.
He took a final, steadying breath. The coat check room, with its false safety, was a coffin. He needed the open space of the ballroom. He needed them to see him.
He pushed the door open and stepped back into the foyer. He didn't skulk. He walked straight toward the archway leading to the ballroom, his boots silent on the marble. A waiter carrying a tray of empty flutes passed him, did a double-take, his eyes widening at the tactical gear. Adrien ignored him.
He reached the archway. He was at the edge of the party now. The heat of hundreds of bodies, the smell of champagne and perfume, hit him. The quartet was playing a waltz. Couples swirled on the dance floor. He saw Judge Oliver clap a man on the shoulder. He saw Leo trying to dance, clumsy and drunk.
Adrien's heart was a calm, slow drum. The pre-mission nerves were gone, burned away by purpose. He reached into his vest and pulled out the burner phone. He powered it on. The screen glowed in the dim light of the ballroom. He opened the video file, his thumb hovering over 'play.' But he wouldn't play it here, not on this tiny screen. He had a better idea.
He looked across the room. Above the fireplace, opposite the archway, was a large, blank wall. A perfect screen. And mounted discreetly in the ceiling, he spotted the small, dark dome of a projection system. The judge likely used it for presentations, for showing off his charity's work. Perfect.
He needed to get to the control room. It would be nearby, probably behind the main dais where the judge now stood. He began to move around the perimeter of the room, staying in the shadows near the wall. A few heads turned. A woman gasped, her hand flying to her pearls. A man in a tuxedo stepped forward, frowning.
"You there! This is a private event! Security!"
Adrien kept walking. He was a force of nature, an iceberg gliding through a warm sea. The man reached for his arm. Without breaking stride, Adrien caught the man's wrist, twisted it just enough to make him yelp and stumble aside, and kept going. It was a motion so fluid and controlled it looked like a dance step.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The music faltered. The quartet stopped playing. Heads turned. Conversations died. Adrien felt hundreds of eyes on him, a pressure against his skin. He didn't look at them. He kept his gaze fixed on the judge, who had turned, his smile fading into a puzzled frown.
Two men in dark suits real security, not rent-a-cops materialized from the crowd, moving toward him with purpose. Adrien didn't speed up. He let them come. The first one grabbed for his vest. Adrien dropped his shoulder, drove forward, and used the man's own momentum to slam him into a laden dessert table. Glass shattered, a tower of cupcakes collapsing in a riot of frosting. The second guard threw a punch. Adrien caught the fist in his palm, squeezed until he felt bones grind, and shoved the man backward into a group of startled socialites.
Chaos was beginning to bloom. But Adrien was already past them, reaching the small, discreet door next to the dais. He tried the handle. Locked. He didn't pause. He pulled the compact breaching tool from his vest a heavy, hardened steel pry bar and jammed it into the doorjamb near the lock. One powerful lever, and the wood splintered with a sound like a gunshot. The door flew open.
Inside was a small, tech-filled room. Racks of audio equipment, a lighting board, and a computer console with a large monitor. A terrified technician in a headset cowered in the corner. "Don't hurt me!"
"The projector. How do I display a video from this?" Adrien held up the burner phone.
The technician, shaking, pointed to a cable. "H-HDMI input. Port three. Use the switcher."
Adrien plugged the phone in. On the monitor, the video file icon appeared. On the large wall in the ballroom, the judge's family crest vanished, replaced by a blue 'no signal' screen.
He could hear raised voices outside, the confused buzz of the crowd, Chief Miller bellowing for order. He had seconds.
He selected the video file. He looked at the technician. "When I open that door, you play this. Full volume. You understand?"
The man nodded, tears in his eyes.
Adrien turned and walked back to the shattered door. He pulled it open and stepped back into the ballroom.
Silence fell, brittle and complete. Every face was turned to him. Judge Oliver stood at the front of the dais, his face a mask of outraged authority. Chief Miller was at his side, red-faced, his hand on his service weapon. Leo and his friends had gathered in a clump, their drunken bravado replaced by confusion and a dawning, sick recognition.
Adrien stood before them, a black-clad avenger in a sea of silk and satin. He looked directly at Judge Oliver, his voice cutting through the silence, clear and cold as a mountain stream.
"You celebrate heroes," Adrien said, his gaze sweeping the crowd. "But in this town, the only heroes are the ones who survive the monsters you protect." He raised his hand, pointing directly at Leo. "That boy. Your son. He and his friends beat my daughter into a coma. And you," his eyes locked back on the judge, "you buried the truth."
A collective gasp went up. Judge Oliver's face purpled. "This is slander! Security, arrest this madman!"
But Adrien wasn't finished. He looked at the technician's booth and gave a single, sharp nod.
On the giant wall behind the judge, the video began to play.
The shaky, blue-lit footage filled the room. Harper's terrified face, ten feet tall. The first shove. The laughter. The sickening sound of the first punch, amplified through the ballroom's crystal-clear sound system.
The crowd erupted. Screams. Shouts of horror. Leo's face, on the screen and in the flesh, went sheet-white. His friends tried to shrink away, to hide in the crowd.
Judge Oliver stared at the monstrous image of his son, his mouth agape. Chief Miller looked like he'd been struck.
Adrien stood amid the chaos, a rock in a storm. He had done it. He had torn the roof off their perfect world and showed them the rot inside.
But as he watched the horror on their faces, he knew this was only the beginning. He had declared war in their very stronghold. And now, trapped in a room with the most powerful and corrupt men in town, he had to get out alive.