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.

Commissioner Jonathan Aldridge.

His name carried weight, not just in the NYPD but beyond. He was no ordinary lawman; he was a product of lineage, a scion of the Aldridge family—one of the many powerful houses that had served and been tied to elite families for generations. This was New York, where the true power lay not just in government positions but in the intricate web of alliances between the ruling elite and their enforcers. Almost every high-ranking position in the city was filled by individuals who were, in one way or another, beholden to the elite. And Commissioner Aldridge was no exception.

He held the phone to his ear, his gaze never leaving Michael as he raged outside.

"Yes, he's here," Aldridge said smoothly, his voice carrying the kind of assured confidence that only came from years of navigating power struggles. "But from what we've gathered, it's just a gunshot in the air. No fatalities."

He listened as the person on the other end spoke, his fingers tapping lightly on his desk in an unhurried rhythm.

"It's not worth pursuing," he continued. "Even if we were to push it, the worst that could happen is them offering up the guard who fired the shot. It's an easy case, nothing that would put Blackwell in real jeopardy."

A pause. More words from the other side. Aldridge smirked slightly, shaking his head. "Yes, I understand. But we need something bigger. This? This is nothing."

His eyes drifted to Michael again, watching the younger man's frustration boil over. Aldridge already knew what this was about. He knew what all of this was about. The Blackwells had been under siege for weeks now, targeted systematically by the other elite families. The orchestrator? Nathaniel Rockerfeller.

What Alexander Blackwell had done to offend someone of Rockerfeller's stature, Aldridge didn't know. But he did know one thing—Blackwell had made a grave mistake. The Rockerfellers were in a league of their own. Even among the elite, they stood apart. Untouchable. And yet, somehow, Blackwell had invited their wrath.

Aldridge exhaled, his mind briefly running through the attacks that had already been launched against the Blackwells. They had gone after their business empire, but Blackwell had made it difficult—no clear headquarters, no easily accessible employee records. The usual corporate takedown methods had failed. Then came the financial assaults—tax investigations, asset freezes. But again, nothing stuck. Their financial strategist had been detained, but even that had been a fruitless endeavor. He had used the same loopholes the elite families relied upon, making prosecution impossible.

The only thing that had worked so far was constant, relentless harassment. Chipping away at their stability. Applying pressure. Forcing them onto the defensive.

But it wasn't enough.

Michael was supposed to be the final push. The perfect tool to escalate the situation. Yet, even now, Aldridge saw the problem. The case Michael was presenting was weak. Irrelevant. It could, at most, be a temporary inconvenience to Blackwell, not the knockout blow they needed.

The commissioner leaned back in his chair, fingers interlocking as he exhaled deeply.

'If someone had died,' he thought, 'then we'd have something to work with.'

But they didn't. Not yet.

And until they did, Alexander Blackwell would continue to evade the inevitable.

For now.

Michael, who had just been turned away, stormed out of the imposing police headquarters, his mind a whirlwind of frustration and seething anger. He could still hear the dismissive tone of the official in his ears, the way they had brushed him off as if the lives of the people who had suffered at the protest were insignificant. His fists clenched, his jaw tightened, and every step he took out of the building felt heavier than the last. How could they do nothing? How could they just stand by and ignore what had happened?

As he reached the sidewalk, his ears caught the sound of voices calling his name. He turned his head sharply, his mind still clouded with rage, but the moment his gaze settled on them, his expression softened just slightly. There they were—Darren, Nora, and Christiana—the three people who had stood by him long before any of this had escalated, back when their protests were about chipped trees and minor environmental infractions. They had been there from the very beginning, and now, even as the stakes had risen, they were still here.

They rushed towards him, their faces etched with worry.

"Are you okay? We've been looking for you everywhere!" Darren asked, scanning Michael's face for any sign of harm.

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"What happened in there? What are you even doing here?" Nora added, concern lacing her voice.

"The news channels are looking for you," Christiana chimed in, her voice urgent. "You're all over the place, Michael. You're the headline!"

Michael exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face as he tried to gather his thoughts. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he said quickly, though his tone betrayed his frustration. "I went in there to report the case, to make them do something, but those fools—those useless bastards—won't lift a damn finger!" His voice rose in anger as he spat the words out. "They're acting like nothing even happened! Like none of this matters!"

His breath was ragged, his body tense. But as the words left his mouth, his gaze flickered with guilt. "But what about you guys? Are you okay? I'm sorry about what happened… I didn't think—"

Darren immediately shook his head. "We're fine, man. Don't worry about us."

"Speak for yourself!" Christiana interjected, crossing her arms with a dramatic huff. "I got shoved, you know. My leg's bruised. Pretty sure I'm going to be limping for a week."

Michael winced. "Damn… Christiana, I'm really sorry. I—"

But before he could let guilt consume him, Nora stepped forward, her eyes burning with determination. "Michael, don't do that. Don't start doubting yourself now. Look at everything you've done. Look how far you've come. Back then, it was just the four of us, barely making a dent. And now? Now, you're leading something real. You're making waves! We're not just some small-time activists anymore—we're on every news channel. We're trending online. We are the number one story in the entire country, Michael!" Her voice grew stronger with every word. "This is the big leagues, and we're here. We're fighting for change, the kind of change that actually matters! You've come too far to start second-guessing yourself now."

Michael's lips parted slightly, his eyes glistening as he looked at them. "You guys…"

Darren gave him a firm nod. "We're always with you."

"Yeah, yeah, don't get all mushy on us now," Christiana added with a teasing smirk. "It's just a scratched-up leg. I've been through worse."

A small, almost hesitant smile tugged at Michael's lips. He had the best people by his side. They believed in him even when he struggled to believe in himself.

Then, as if remembering something, Nora's expression shifted. "Plus," she said, her tone filled with intrigue, "I think we might have gotten something that could help."

Michael's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Darren, show him," Nora said, nudging Darren forward.

Darren reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, flat object. It glinted slightly under the dim streetlights as he held it up. "I managed to grab this when I was being pushed back by the guards."

Michael's eyes widened as he took a step closer, his breath catching in his throat. "That is—"

Before he could finish, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. The vibration sent a chill through his spine. He reached for it hesitantly, his fingers suddenly unsteady. Glancing at the screen, his face paled for a split second.

He knew who was calling.

Fear crept into his features, but he masked it quickly. "I need to take this," he said abruptly, his voice forced and tight. "It's important. I'll be right back."

"Michael—" Nora started, but he was already walking away, fast, ignoring their calls as he sought out a secluded corner of the street.

Once he was sure he was alone, he took a deep breath, steadying himself before pressing the phone to his ear.

The voice on the other end was cold, sharp, and laced with disappointment.

"Michael. You failed."

Michael flinched as if struck. His mouth opened and closed, searching for the right words. "No, no, I didn't! I was about to get in, but then—"

"But then?" the voice cut him off, unimpressed. "Do not waste my time with excuses. I took a gamble on you, Michael. I thought you had potential. Clearly, I was wrong. My patience is wearing thin."

Michael's breath hitched. His grip tightened around the phone. "Give me another chance," he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm close, I swear. Just give me more time. Please."

A long silence stretched between them before the voice finally spoke again, colder than before. "It's over, Michael."

Michael's heart pounded. Panic clawed at his chest. "Wait!" he gasped. "Wait, I can fix this! I have a plan!"

"A plan?" The voice remained skeptical.

Michael's desperate eyes flicked back toward his friends—toward the object in Darren's hand. And then, for the first time in hours, a slow, knowing smile crept onto his face.

"Yes," he said, his voice steadier now. "I have a plan."

The voice on the other end was silent for a moment before responding. "Then make it count. This is your last chance."

The line went dead.

Michael lowered the phone slowly, his fingers curling into a fist as he exhaled sharply. He turned back toward his friends, his mind racing, his heart pounding with something new—determination.

Yes. He had a plan.

And this time, he wouldn't fail.

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