"Let's see how important you feel when I drag you downstairs," Miller spat, his voice shaking with a volatile mixture of adrenaline and fury. He shoved his face closer, his breath hot and ragged against the cool air of the corridor. "Go ahead, I'll regret in the next seconds."
It was a threat born of pure, desperate delusion. Marcus Holloway’s face remained a masterclass in stoicism. He didn't dignify the pathetic threat with a verbal response. He knew that arguing with a fool only elevated the fool.
Instead, Marcus simply turned his massive shoulders. Ignoring the hands clutching his robe, he began to walk toward his destination. The sheer physical mass and forward momentum of the judge forced Miller to stumble backward. The officer was practically dragged along the polished linoleum, his boots squeaking awkwardly as he desperately tried to maintain his aggressive stance while being physically overpowered by a man who wasn't even fighting back.
Marcus’s heavy, measured footsteps echoed down the corridor, driving the struggling deputy backward until they reached a heavy oak door at the end of the restricted wing. Bolted to the center of the polished wood was a thick, gleaming brass plaque featuring deeply engraved, black-filled lettering.
Before Miller could register the words on the brass plate, the heavy door swung open inward.
Stepping into the threshold was Eleanor, a veteran court clerk with sharp, observant eyes and a demeanor forged by decades of managing the chaotic schedules of the superior court. She held a thick stack of manila case files pressed tightly to her chest. As she stepped out, her eyes immediately locked onto the surreal, horrifying scene unfolding in the hallway: a red-faced, sweating patrol officer physically clinging to the chest of the presiding judge.