Author's Note:
This is where the mask slips. No more games. No more civility. Chapter 3 is what happens when arrogance walks into consequence. If Chapter 2 was a tensioned wire, this is the snap. And what burns afterward. Don't blink.
The music fractured like glass. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence.
Niv didn't.
Jacob charged, rage thick on his breath. His girlfriend caught his arm—
"Jacob—stop—"
He yanked free, loud and cruel.
"Don't fucking touch me."
She flinched. A few people started filming.
He grabbed a cocktail glass from a passing tray and hurled it full-force at Niv's head.
Without looking, Niv's hand shot up behind him.
Clink.
He caught it.
A perfect no-look catch. Not even a twitch.
He turned slightly and placed the glass neatly on a nearby table.
"Glass shards are dangerous," Niv said, calm. Almost kind.
"They hurt people who didn't ask to be part of your tantrum."
The air had gone tight.
Jacob froze. Everyone was watching. No noise, just the humming undercurrent of expensive silence.
His eyes locked on Niv. Ugly. Searching. Like he needed Niv to bleed just to feel real again.
"You think you're funny?" he hissed. "You think you can show up here and make me look weak?"
Niv didn't reply.
Ethan, still holding his drink, exhaled hard. "Here we go."
"Caldwell," someone muttered nervously. "Let it go."
"Fuck that," Jacob barked. "I'll cave his face in."
He lunged.
People began backing off — not just because Jacob was shouting. But because they remembered who he was.
Jacob Caldwell: son of a political dynasty. Former national-level boxer. Undefeated. Six-foot-two and bred for dominance. A man trained to hit hard and never look back.
He was dangerous. Even drunk.
And yet — no one moved to stop him.
No security. No friend. No whisper of caution.
Because Nivrit Vashirayan hadn't moved.
Hadn't flinched.
Hadn't so much as shifted his weight.
He stood still, glasses slightly askew, head tilted, observing Jacob like a scientist watching a failed experiment.
Sera Marino leaned against a marble pillar nearby, sipping something clear and quiet. She didn't intervene.
She watched — poised, lips parted. A queen watching the crowd forget how thrones are earned.
Jacob snarled and lunged.
Fast. Explosive. An overhand right with the weight of a grudge behind it.
Too fast.
Then—
A whisper of motion.
A shift.
A catch.
A pivot.
The sound of a body being redirected. Not slammed. Redirected.
Jacob's momentum turned against him. Niv used it like a lever and folded him into the floor with clinical precision.
Jacob hit the marble. Breath gone.
The party fell to a hush.
Niv looked down. Calm. Clinical.
"You overcommitted," he said softly. "But good stance."
Ethan blinked.
Sera's brow arched — rare. That throw wasn't flashy. It was practiced. Martial. Efficient.
Not something learned in a workshop. Taught by people who kill without mess.
Jacob groaned — not just pain. Humiliation.
He'd been disarmed. Judged. In front of the crowd he lived to impress.
Hands trembling, he pushed himself up.
"You think you're safe because you know a few party tricks? I could make one call and cancel your visa, your degree, your fucking identity."
Some guests shifted uncomfortably.
Not because Jacob was yelling.
But because he might not be bluffing.
Power always sounds insane — until it doesn't.
Niv had been ready to walk away.
But then came the threat.
And that changed everything.
There were lessons Nivrit Vashirayan had learned before he could spell his name.
His father: "You don't respond to threats. You erase them."
His mother: "When you hold fire in your blood, you do not explain yourself to smoke."
The Vashirayans crushed challenges. The Aurelions ended them with elegance.
In Nivrit, both legacies stood awake.
His eyes changed.
Not rage. Not anger.
Calibration.
The crowd felt it.
People looked away. Down. Pretended to notice art.
Even Ethan's lips parted—
But Niv looked up.
Just a fraction.
And the room stopped breathing.
He didn't square his shoulders. Didn't clench his fists.
But something behind his gaze turned ancient.
Still. Focused. Measuring.
The ramen-scarfing Reddit nerd — gone.
Something built for endings stood in his place.
He stepped forward. Once.
"You can make whatever call you want," Niv said, voice low. "Just make sure it's worth the consequences."
Jacob's jaw ticked.
"Is that a threat?"
Niv tilted his head. And smiled.
Not boyish. Not warm.
Predatory.
"Just a fact."
The room held its breath.
Even the music had forgotten how to play.
Sera Marino lowered her glass.
Not smiling. Not blinking.
But now — interested.
Jacob stared at Niv — still standing still.
And something primal in him screamed don't.
But pride is louder than fear.
And liquor is louder than both.
Jacob barked a laugh. Ugly.
"You just signed your death warrant."
He moved.
Not a lunge. A full assault.
A blur of fists.
A boxer's fury.
Hooks, crosses, a jab meant to break cartilage.
He swung—
CRACK.
Not a punch.
A trap.
Niv sidestepped, caught Jacob's wrist mid-swing.
And twisted.
Pop.
Not loud. But real.
Jacob's scream tore the silence.
He hit the floor, cradling his arm.
His elbow had folded inward.
It never should.
The crowd recoiled.
Even the Ice Queen blinked.
Ethan stood frozen.
And suddenly—
He wasn't in the ballroom.
He was in Texas.
Two years ago.
Roadside diner. Fryer oil and broken dreams.
A man said a slur.
Niv didn't flinch.
The man got closer. Barked more.
Crack.
Niv elbowed him between temple and jaw.
Dropped him. Kicked his knees out. Stamped his face into the linoleum.
No shouting. Just action.
"You need to learn to shut up," Niv had said.
Then walked out.
Now — Ethan saw that look again.
Not rage. Not thrill. Not heat.
Just done.
Like Nivrit Vashirayan had finished giving the world chances.
---
Jacob writhed on the marble, arm twisted, eyes wild.
"You're nothing," he spat. "Just another curry-stained caste freak pretending to be one of us."
Niv didn't flinch.
But something behind his eyes shifted.
He turned to a nearby waiter.
"A drink. Neat. No ice."
The waiter fled like escaping a fire.
Ethan stepped forward.
"Niv… come on. It's over."
Niv didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
The drink arrived.
"Also," he said softly, "a lighter."
The waiter obeyed.
The room wasn't silent. It was waiting.
Even Sera straightened.
Niv crouched beside Jacob.
"You should've stopped talking."
He poured the drink.
Amber ran over Jacob's chest. His face. His hairline.
Jacob flinched.
"What the f—"
Flick.
The lighter dropped.
Fire bloomed.
Silent. Then hungry.
Jacob screamed. High. Real.
The flames followed the alcohol across his chest and cheek.
One girl gasped. Another vomited.
Ethan stumbled back.
And Niv?
Expression blank.
Voice even.
"Words are cheap," he said. "Consequences aren't."
He turned and walked away.
Calm. Deliberate.
As security rushed in.
And horror followed behind like an obedient dog.