I Inherited Trillions, Now What?

Chapter 133: Protest II

Perspective is a curious thing. Freedom of speech, the right to protest—these are ideals enshrined in the very foundation of a democratic society. But when a bullet is fired into a sea of protesters attempting to breach private land, the lines blur. Who was wrong? Who was right? It depends on where one stands.

Inside the imposing fortress known as One Police Plaza—1PP, as it is colloquially called—New York's largest and most formidable law enforcement headquarters, the weight of law and order sat heavy in the air. This was the heart of the NYPD, a behemoth of an institution, housing over 50,000 officers, detectives, and administrative staff. The building itself was an architectural statement—looming, cold, and calculated. Every hallway echoed with the hurried footsteps of officers, the steady hum of bureaucracy, and the muted tension of high-stakes decisions.

Amidst this controlled chaos, in one of the countless offices lining the labyrinthine corridors, a storm was brewing. This was supposed to be a place of order, of protocol, yet today, one man was disrupting that peace.

Michael Zeller stood fuming, three individuals flanking him as he confronted one of the high-ranking officials of the department. He was not here for a conversation—he was here to demand justice.

"I'm telling you—they fired a gun into a sea of peaceful protesters! Alexander Blackwell and his guards need to be arrested!" Michael's voice was not just loud; it was authoritative, brimming with righteous indignation.

The official facing him, a man who had been trained to handle the most volatile of personalities, maintained a professional veneer. His voice was measured, his words deliberate. "Mr. Zel—"

Michael cut him off sharply. "Zeller. Michael Zeller."

The official arched an eyebrow, unimpressed by the correction. "Is that your real name?"

Michael's patience was already thin, but now it frayed further. "Yes, it is."

The official nodded slightly, his expression unreadable. "Well, Mr. Zeller, I'm afraid there is nothing we can do at this time. There have been no reports of serious incidents, and without—"

Michael erupted. "Nothing you can do?! Do you know how many people were injured in the stampede caused by that gunshot? Do you have any idea what it was like? People were trampled! People were terrified! That bullet turned a peaceful demonstration into sheer chaos!"

His voice rang through the office, drawing the eyes of passersby. But just a few steps away, inside the most expansive and luxurious office in the entire building, a man watched the commotion unfold through his reinforced glass window.

This office was a world of its own—far removed from the rest of 1PP. It was large, meticulously arranged, and exuded authority. A mahogany desk, polished to perfection, sat at its center, adorned with neatly stacked reports and a sleek, high-end phone. Framed commendations lined the walls, alongside photographs of the most powerful figures in law enforcement. A massive NYPD emblem was proudly displayed, a symbol of the force's might. And behind it all, standing near the window, was the man who wielded more power than anyone in this building.