By the afternoon of the fourth day, the rain had finally stopped, leaving a heavy canopy of dark, bruised clouds hanging low over New York City.
Anthony had just returned to the house from walking Helen when the doorbell chimed sharply.
Helen's ears immediately pinned back. A low, vibrating, highly territorial growl rolled from her throat.
Anthony, who had been meditating and running Compensatory Perception drills in the side room, slowly opened his eyes. He drew the Walther P99, tucked it smoothly into his waistband at the small of his back, and walked to the front hallway, peering through the slats of the French windows.
A small crowd had gathered on his porch. A man, a woman, and a masked figure. Out on the street, two blacked-out luxury SUVs idled at the curb, flanked by eight identically dressed, stone-faced bodyguards.
The first man was Winston Scott, the manager of the New York Continental. He was dressed in an impeccably pressed, dark charcoal three-piece suit, draped in a luxurious dark velvet overcoat. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, and his gold-rimmed glasses rested elegantly on the bridge of his nose.
Beside Winston stood a woman in her mid-thirties.
Her attire was aggressively austere. She wore a minimalist, charcoal-gray double-breasted suit. The shoulder lines were deliberately padded an extra inch and a half to project an imposing, masculine silhouette, while the cuffs were tailored to reveal exactly half an inch of a pristine white shirt. She wore dark gray lambskin gloves and thick-soled Chelsea boots.
Her dark brown hair was cropped short, and her pale, almost translucent skin was completely devoid of makeup. There was nothing soft or conventionally feminine about her appearance. Her only accessories were a silver pocket-watch chain draped across her left breast pocket, and a heavy, matte titanium ring on her right hand.
Behind her stood the masked man.
He wore a heavy, floor-length black trench coat with a rigid stand-up collar. The collar was turned up, completely concealing his neck, and the cuffs were tightly strapped to his wrists. Beneath the coat, he wore a dark gray tactical turtleneck and reinforced black combat boots. The entire ensemble lacked any embellishment; even the buttons were matte black to prevent reflection.
A silver metal mask covered the lower half of his face, extending from the bridge of his nose down to his jawline, revealing only a pair of dead, calculating eyes and a scarred forehead. Etched into the center of the metal mask was a simplified relief of the High Table's eagle emblem.
Holy crap, Anthony thought to himself, his heart skipping a beat. How did these two show up so early in the timeline?
He wouldn't have been surprised to see Winston on his doorstep. But the appearance of the woman and the masked man was a massive, terrifying divergence.
From her icy, emotionless expression, her perfect, shoulder-width tactical stance, and her aggressively ascetic tailoring, Anthony knew exactly who—and what—she was.
An Adjudicator. The High Table's ultimate, unquestionable authority on internal law.
And the masked man standing behind her? A Harbinger. An elite overseer dispatched solely to ensure the absolute enforcement of High Table protocol.
Seeing that the door wasn't opening, the Adjudicator coldly took two steps back.
Two of the suit-wearing bodyguards—High Table Enforcers—stepped forward, their faces completely blank.
Winston hesitated slightly, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out and stop them, but he thought better of it. He silently moved behind the Adjudicator, lowering his gaze to the spotless tips of his Oxford shoes.
Just as the Enforcers raised their boots to kick the door off its hinges, the deadbolt clicked.
The door swung open. The Enforcers froze, their hands suspended in mid-air, a faint glint of murderous intent flashing in their eyes.
Anthony leaned against the doorframe. He completely ignored the two Enforcers, his gaze sliding past the Adjudicator to land squarely on the Continental manager.
"Can I help you, Winston?"
Anthony's voice was perfectly calm, tinged with just enough annoyance to establish a boundary.
The two Enforcers ignored Anthony's posture entirely. They shoved past him, attempting to barge directly into his living room to secure the perimeter for the Adjudicator.
Anthony's eyes darkened instantly.
Without warning, his leg lashed out like a whip, driving a brutal front kick directly into the first Enforcer's kidney.
Clearly not expecting a civilian to dare strike a High Table operative, the man was caught entirely off guard. The kinetic force sent him staggering violently into the hallway wall.
The second Enforcer reacted with terrifying speed, pivoting on his heel and throwing a heavy, practiced cross directly at Anthony's jaw.
Anthony didn't flinch. He shifted half a step to the inside, slipping the punch entirely. His right hand snapped up, seizing the Enforcer's extended arm and yanking him forward to destroy his center of gravity. Simultaneously, Anthony dropped his hips and swept his right leg cleanly through the Enforcer's ankle.
The Enforcer went airborne, falling hard toward the floorboards.
Just as the man tried to brace his fall with his left arm, Anthony stomped down brutally on his shoulder blade, pinning the Enforcer flat against the hardwood with a sickening thud.
The first Enforcer recovered. He spun around, his hand flying to his shoulder holster.
He froze.
The young man was standing casually with one boot planted firmly on his partner's spine, and the black, hollow muzzle of a Glock 17 was already leveled directly at the center of the first Enforcer's forehead.
The Enforcer shot a rapid glance at the Adjudicator. A resolute, fanatical glint flashed in his eyes. He didn't care if he died; he had to enforce the High Table's will. He gripped his pistol and ruthlessly squeezed the trigger.
Compensatory Perception flooded Anthony's brain. The world slowed to a crawl. Anthony clearly "saw" the micro-contractions of the Enforcer's index finger before the sear even broke.
Anthony didn't hesitate for a fraction of a millisecond.
"Stop!" Winston shouted.
BANG!
The unsilenced gunshot was deafening in the enclosed living room.
Anthony fired first. He didn't care if the man was wearing a High Table Kevlar weave or not.
The Enforcer was thrown backward by the kinetic impact, stumbling several steps before hitting the wall. The man's facial muscles twitched violently, his lips pulling back into a tight grimace as the wind was knocked out of his lungs.
He was clearly wearing high-grade soft armor beneath the suit.
The Enforcers assigned to Adjudicators were not private bodyguards in the traditional sense; they were the physical manifestations of the High Table's wrath. Their combat skills were exceptional—somewhere between elite syndicate assassins and high-tier mercenaries. However, their true lethality relied on pack tactics and overwhelming firepower, not necessarily individual CQB dominance.
"Hold."
A cold, mechanical voice sliced through the ringing in Anthony's ears.
It came from the Adjudicator.
The Enforcer immediately holstered his weapon, though his eyes burned with the humiliation of being outdrawn and shot by a kid. He glared at Anthony with venomous hostility.
"Castle Doctrine. State of New York," Anthony said, his expression unusually calm. He slowly removed his foot from the man on the floor, though he kept the Glock 17 raised at the low-ready.
The second Enforcer scrambled awkwardly to his feet, glaring at Anthony with equal malice.
Winston's face was slightly pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and sheer disbelief.
Winston knew Anthony understood the existence of the High Table. But even if the kid didn't immediately recognize an Adjudicator, the sheer presence of the entourage should have screamed untouchable authority.
Winston had never, in his decades of running the Continental, seen a man actively humiliate an Adjudicator and a Harbinger by violently subduing and shooting their personal guard right in front of them.
And yet, despite the sudden, explosive violence, the masked Harbinger hadn't moved a single muscle. He stood on the porch like a carved wooden statue, his hands resting easily at his sides.
The Adjudicator's eyelid twitched—a microscopic crack in her ascetic facade—but she remained silent.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Tarasov," Winston said, swallowing hard to regain his composure. His voice was carefully devoid of emotion. "May I present the Adjudicator, and the Harbinger. They are emissaries of the High Table. Please... lower the weapon."
Anthony raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting slowly between the austere woman and the masked man. He allowed a perfectly calibrated look of scrutinizing hesitation to cross his face.
"I don't know them."
Winston's eyes widened fractionally, flashing a desperate, warning signal, his face shifting between pale and flushed.
The Adjudicator glanced at Winston—just a single, chilling look—before stepping over the threshold into the living room.
The masked Harbinger followed a few paces behind, the heavy hem of his trench coat sweeping silently across the floorboards.
"The dust of the Tarasov syndicate requires a place to settle," the Adjudicator said. She offered no preamble, no greeting.
Her voice lacked any inflection, exclamation, or natural pause. The sentences were delivered mechanically, precisely spaced at 0.3-second intervals, like a metronome.
She surveyed the dusty, rundown living room, making no move to sit down. She kept her gloved hands clasped formally behind her back.
"Viggo Tarasov is dead. He has left behind an absolute vacuum."
"New York requires stability."
The two Enforcers stood exactly one meter behind her, their right hands hovering over their suit jackets, staring unblinkingly at Anthony. The Harbinger found a shadowed corner of the room and simply stopped moving, blending into the background.
Anthony knew exactly what the Adjudicator was here to do. He didn't reply immediately. He holstered the Glock, hung Helen's leash on the coat hook by the door, and casually took a sip from a bottle of water on the counter.
"So, the High Table needs me to take over the Tarasov family?" Anthony asked finally.
"I pass."
He pulled out a cheap wooden dining chair, spun it around, and sat down backward, crossing his arms over the backrest. His posture was relaxed, incredibly informal, and bordering on lazy.
This blatant display of disrespect caused the Adjudicator's eyelid to twitch a second time.
She turned her head slightly to look at Helen, who was still standing defensively by the sofa, issuing a low, continuous warning growl.
"You do not possess the right to refuse." She delivered the words as if she were analyzing a piece of filth on her shoe.
"The High Table has audited the Tarasov syndicate's remaining assets, its outstanding debts, and... its potential destabilizing factors."
She paused, her icy gaze dropping down to the dog.
"Viggo Tarasov's ultimate folly was allowing a personal, emotional grudge to challenge the sacred rules. He wasted vast syndicate resources warring against an old dog—an old dog who was destined to be immune to erasure by those very rules."
It went without saying exactly who the Old Dog was.
"Anthony Tarasov," Winston interjected smoothly, though his tone carried a sharp edge of warning. "I highly advise you to carefully consider your attitude when addressing an Adjudicator of the High Table."
"You are Viggo's blood. Under the Blood River Agreement and the laws of succession, you are required to return to the syndicate and assume the mantle. If you insist on refusing... the High Table will simply parachute an external Administrator in to take over the Tarasov assets. And you will be left with nothing."
Winston took a half-step forward, elegantly adjusting the silver cufflinks of his suit, inserting himself smoothly into the conversation.
"Adjudicator," Winston said, his voice acting as a diplomatic lubricant, attempting to soften the lethal tension in the room. "The Tarasov syndicate requires a new leader who inherently understands and respects the rules, to ensure the delicate balance of the New York underworld is maintained."
Winston kept his eyes locked respectfully on the Adjudicator, but his peripheral vision tracked Anthony's every reaction.
"While parachuting an external Administrator into the city might stabilize the ledgers quickly, they will inherently lack a deep, cultural understanding of the family's embedded connections and the local ecosystem. Such an aggressive insertion could easily provoke a violent backlash from the surviving Bratva captains."
"I submit that Mr. Tarasov, as the last living descendant of Viggo, possesses a natural advantage... and the potential to handle these internal syndicate affairs with far more efficiency."
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