The bailiff did not pause to ask a question. He did not assess the calm, authoritative posture of the man before him. He simply stopped at the edge of the elevated platform, thrust a thick finger forward, and barked his command.
"Get your ass out of that chair."
The man in the off-white shirt did not flinch. He slowly leaned forward, his dark, piercing eyes locking onto the bailiff with a cold, terrifying promise.
The silence that followed the bailiff’s command was absolute, heavy with the metallic taste of impending violence. The man in the off-white shirt did not scramble to apologize, nor did he frantically try to explain his presence. He simply sat there, a mountain of coiled tension and quiet power, allowing the bailiff's blatant disrespect to hang in the air like foul smoke.
Slowly, with an agonizingly deliberate grace, the man leaned forward. The thick, muscular contours of his shoulders shifted beneath the tight fabric of his shirt. He lifted a thick leather binder with both hands, his dark eyes never leaving the flushed, angry face of the man in the midnight navy uniform.
When he finally spoke, his voice was not a shout. It was a low, resonant baritone that vibrated with a terrifying, absolute authority.