He Mocked My Poverty, But My Secret Identity Unleashed Hell On His Empire

Brock strode forward, his arrogance escalating. He thrust a stiff finger into Arthur’s chest, shoving him with calculated aggression. The impact, meant to assert dominance, was met with an immediate, startling counter. Arthur’s left forearm flashed out, a blur of defensive motion, intercepting Brock’s wrist in a vise-like grip. A resonant, bone-cracking thud echoed through the sudden silence as Arthur applied a brutal rotational torque. The physics of the deceleration were violent; Brock’s shoulder twisted downward with sickening force, and the champagne flute slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, shattering on the marble floor.

“Let go of me, you freak, before I have security break your neck!” Brock stammered, his eyes wide with paralyzed shock, the smirk collapsing into a grimace of raw agony.

Arthur remained unyielding, his jaw clenching hard, the brutal torque applied without a flicker of effort. He released Brock’s wrist with an almost dismissive flick. Brock staggered backward, clutching his reddened, throbbing arm, stumbling into the gasping crowd of high-society guests. A hush fell over the ballroom, the earlier merriment replaced by stunned disbelief.

“You spent fifteen years getting rich, Brock,” Arthur’s voice cut through the silence, chillingly calm, “but you still never learned when to shut up.”

Brock stood there, his chin quivering in humiliated rage, sweat beading on his forehead. The thunder outside seemed to rumble in sympathy with the tremor running through the marble floor. But the true shock was yet to come. Blinding twin searchlights suddenly pierced the storm outside, accompanied by the deafening roar of helicopter rotors. The grand double doors burst inward, revealing six heavily armed Secret Service agents in tactical gear, securing the perimeter.