"Shut up! Don't tell me how to do my job!" Samuels screamed, spittle flying from his lips.
With both hands, the officer lunged forward and shoved Marcus violently in the chest.
The force of the blow was meant to knock the man to the ground, to humiliate him on the concrete. But Marcus barely moved. The heavy impact pushed him back half a step. His heel caught the edge of the curb, and his back brushed against the tinted glass of the town car's door. He absorbed the kinetic energy flawlessly, instantly re-establishing his balance.
Marcus did not raise his fists. He did not shout back. He simply stood there, smoothing a minor wrinkle from the lapel of his silver-grey jacket. He looked at Samuels not with anger, but with the cold, clinical dissection of a surgeon examining a tumor.
Samuels breathed heavily, his fists clenched, waiting for the man to retaliate so he could justify drawing his baton.
Instead, a heavy, mechanical hum interrupted the silence.
Behind Samuels, the massive, automated glass doors of the Central Police Headquarters slid open.
A procession of high-ranking officers marched out onto the plaza. Leading the group was Captain Miller, a decorated thirty-year veteran of the force, flanked by three deputy inspectors and the precinct's internal affairs commander. They were all in full dress uniform, their gold braids and polished brass buttons gleaming dull in the overcast light. Miller held a beautifully crafted wooden plaque bearing the golden seal of the city's police department.
They moved with rigid military precision, their eyes fixed on the man in the silver-grey suit.