The BBQ bar was deafening. Almost every table was packed.
Blue-collar workers in heavy denim, office drones with loosened ties, and loud packs of college students rubbed shoulders with several tables of heavily tattooed, dangerous-looking men.
A hockey game blared from the flat screens mounted above the bar, punctuated by sudden, violent bursts of cheering and swearing from the crowd.
A waiter led Anthony and his two guests to a sticky booth in the corner, offering a clear view of the entire room.
Anthony let his [Compensatory Perception] wash over the Adjudicator. Her biometric feedback was practically vibrating with revulsion. She was covered in invisible goosebumps.
She refused to sit down. She simply stood next to the booth, looking like she wanted to sterilize the entire building.
"I am going to need to burn this suit," the Harbinger muttered quietly before carefully sitting on the edge of the vinyl bench.
The visual contrast was absurd. The Adjudicator wore an immaculate, avant-garde black suit. The Harbinger wore a mirrored silver mask. Anthony wore a casual, custom-tailored jacket.
They stood out like three aliens dropped into a pigsty, instantly drawing stares of curiosity and hostility from the surrounding tables.
A portly waiter in an oil-stained apron ambled over, slapping a greasy menu down on the table.
"Hey buddies, what can I get you? Ribs and onion rings are the specials today. Buy-two-get-one on the drafts."
Anthony smiled warmly. "We'll take the ribs, the fried chicken, a basket of onion rings, and three pitchers."
The Adjudicator ordered nothing. She didn't pull a sterile energy bar from her pocket. She just stood there, locked in rigid, absolute tension.
For the first time since he had met her, Anthony felt a wave of genuine disorientation radiating from her via his [Compensatory Perception]. She was entirely out of her depth.
Anthony remained standing next to her.
"Look closely, Your Excellency," Anthony said, his voice easily cutting through the noise of the bar. "This is the reality of ordinary people living under the 'civilized' rules of the world. They cheer for a game, they get excited over cheap beer, and they worry about whether they'll have a job tomorrow."
"To them, the High Table and the shadow economy are just ghost stories. They only care about surviving the winter."
The Adjudicator didn't respond. Her cold gaze swept over the chaotic room, as still and dead as a frozen lake.
As Anthony had calculated, the peace didn't last long.
At the next table, four heavily muscled men were on their fifth round of drinks. Their voices had grown aggressive, and they were openly staring at Anthony's table.
Their eyes lingered on the Adjudicator's severe posture and the Harbinger's silver mask, their expressions twisting into drunken, malicious mockery.
"Hey, look at this shit," the largest man slurred, flashing a gold tooth. "They hosting a fucking cosplay convention in here?"
Another man in a faded flannel shirt chimed in, drawing loud, braying laughter from his friends. "Hey, where'd you buy that mask, freak? Halloween is months away!"
"And look at the bitch standing up," the gold-toothed man yelled, pitching his voice so half the bar could hear. "Dressed like she's going to a funeral. Sit down and shut up, sweetheart."
The surrounding tables fell quiet. People turned to watch the spectacle. Some looked annoyed, but most just wanted to see a fight.
The Adjudicator's gloved fingers twitched.
The Harbinger sat completely motionless, but Anthony could physically feel the temperature around him drop as his killing intent spiked.
The waiter hurried over, awkwardly balancing a massive plate of ribs. He shot a nervous look at the drunk table and whispered to Anthony, "Hey, man. Just ignore them. They're locals. They've had way too much to drink."
Anthony smiled, took the plate of ribs, and thanked him.
He picked up a rib, took a slow, deliberate bite, and chewed peacefully, as if he hadn't heard a single word.
Emboldened by the lack of response, the drunks escalated.
The bald man with the gold tooth kicked his chair back and staggered over, gripping a half-empty beer bottle by the neck. He smelled like cheap liquor and unwashed skin.
"Hey! You deaf, you masked freak?" the bald man snarled, leaning over the table. "I'm talking to you. Take the fucking mask off so I can see your ugly face."
He reached a massive, calloused hand toward the Harbinger's silver mask.
Just as the greasy fingers were about to make contact, the Harbinger's hand blurred toward his waist.
Anthony was faster.
The heavy stainless-steel fork in Anthony's hand flashed white under the neon lights.
He drove the tines directly through the top of the bald man's outstretched hand, pinning it to the wooden table with a sickening crunch.
"Ahhh!"
The man's shrieking wail instantly drowned out the hockey game.
He tried to yank his hand back, but the fork was buried deep into the wood. Blood welled up around the steel tines, pooling across the table.
The man went dead pale, the alcohol instantly burning out of his system in a wave of paralyzing agony. He stared in absolute horror at his pinned hand, and then at Anthony, who was casually wiping BBQ sauce from his mouth with a paper napkin.
The entire bar went dead silent. The music seemed deafening in the sudden vacuum.
The three remaining drunks stared in shock for a full second. Then, roaring in fury, they grabbed heavy glass bottles and chairs and charged the booth.
"I can only block two," Anthony warned softly, stepping back.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
Four suppressed gunshots.
Four men hit the floor. Dead before they realized they had been shot.
The Adjudicator lowered her hand. She stood perfectly straight, the smoking barrel of a Walther P99 resting calmly against her hip.
The silence held for half a second.
Then, absolute pandemonium erupted. Patrons screamed, kicking over tables and trampling each other as they stampeded for the exits.
Within thirty seconds, the bar was a deserted, overturned ruin.
"You see," Anthony said smoothly, gesturing to the chaos as if he were an art critic explaining a painting.
"These are ordinary people. They understand nothing of true power. They believe the rules of civilized society give them the right to trample on the dignity of others purely for their own amusement."
"In their eyes, anyone who does not immediately resort to violence is weak. And the weak are simply prey."
He looked at the four corpses bleeding out onto the sticky linoleum.
"Your Excellency. Now you understand why I executed the insurance executives."
The Adjudicator looked at the Walther P99 in her hand, then looked at Anthony.
"You orchestrated this," she stated, her voice devoid of inflection.
Anthony ignored the accusation.
"The High Table rules govern the elite. The assassins. The emissaries. But sanctioned agents are still gang bosses. Do you expect me to grovel and reason with animals who only respect the whip?"
The glass doors shattered inward. The eight High Table Enforcers burst into the room, sweeping their assault rifles across the empty, blood-stained bar.
Anthony looked at the Enforcers, then back to the Adjudicator.
"I hope this little appetizer provided you with a more intuitive understanding of the current state of New York's underworld."
His tone was perfectly casual, as if they were discussing the weather.
"I dare not violate the rules of the High Table, because in your eyes, I am nothing but an ant. I accept my place."
He pointed to the dead men on the floor.
"But in my eyes, these men are ants. And I will never tolerate an ant biting my heel."
The Adjudicator stared at Anthony for a long, heavy moment.
Her expression was incredibly complex. There was cold scrutiny. There was total indifference. And there was a microscopic flicker of something else—a dark, unrecognizable emotion that even Anthony's [Compensatory Perception] couldn't fully decode.
She didn't say a word. She smoothly holstered her weapon, adjusted the lapels of her black suit, and walked out the door.
The Harbinger looked down at the untouched plate of ribs. He let out a soft sigh and followed her out.
Inside the armored SUV, the Adjudicator finally spoke. Her voice had lost a fraction of its mechanical chill.
"Are you attempting to prove that violence is the only effective form of communication, Anthony?"
Anthony leaned his head back against the leather seat, staring at the passing streetlights.
"No, Your Excellency. I am attempting to show you what happens when the fragile rules of civilian society collide with the iron laws of our world. I did not provoke those men. They crossed the line."
"I could have resolved the situation in a 'civilized' manner. I could have called the police. And what would the result have been? A wasted evening, a meaningless police report, and those men would have done the exact same thing to someone else tomorrow. Because at their core, they possess zero respect for order. They only respect consequences."
Anthony met the Adjudicator's eyes in the rearview mirror.
"The rules of the High Table protect us, but they also imprison us. The Table draws a circle and declares the inside a sanctuary. But the ordinary people who live outside that circle mistakenly believe they are safe. They believe they can throw stones at the wolves inside the cage without consequence."
"Tonight, I simply reminded them that stones can kill. This was a necessary lesson to maintain the inviolability of the High Table."
The Adjudicator didn't argue. She turned her head and stared out the tinted window, watching the neon blur of New York pass by.
The Harbinger sat in the back, silent as a tomb.
I didn't even get to eat the ribs, the Harbinger thought.
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