Julian’s gaze swept the room once, locking onto the scene beside the central balustrade: the overturned chair, the spilled broth glistening on the pale marble, and his father sitting on the floor, brushing damp linen from his legs.

The muscle in Julian’s jaw twitched. For a split second, an aura of raw violence flared behind his eyes before being clamped down into an impenetrable veneer of supreme command.

He crossed the dining room in long, silent strides. Waiters scrambled frantically out of his path.

Julian dropped to one knee beside Arthur, completely disregarding the puddle of soup that soaked into the knee of his expensive trousers. His hands were gentle as he reached for Arthur’s shoulders, inspecting the older man’s face, neck, and limbs for fractures or head trauma.

"Father," Julian whispered, the steel in his voice giving way to deep filial devotion. "Are you injured? Can you stand?"

Arthur looked at his son, offering a faint, self-deprecating smile despite the sting of the bruise forming on his hip. "I am whole, Julian. Nothing broken that an old man’s pride cannot mend. My glasses, however, seem to have rolled under table four."

Julian gestured smoothly with two fingers. One of his aides immediately moved, retrieved the tortoiseshell spectacles from beneath the neighboring tablecloth, cleaned them with a microfiber cloth, and handed them back to Arthur with bowed reverence.

Julian slipped his arm beneath his father’s elbow, taking the brunt of Arthur’s weight, and gently hoisted the elder man back onto his feet. Arthur leaned against his son for a moment, regaining his footing, his sodden cardigan heavy and reeking of broth.

Julian inspected the damage: the darkened stain spanning his father’s chest, the slight tremor in Arthur’s hands from the shock of physical assault.

Only then did Julian turn his head.

Standing two paces away, Richard Collins was sneering, his arms crossed over his chest, rocking back on his heels with an amused smirk.

"Well, well," Richard scoffed, looking at Julian’s midnight-blue suit. "The cavalry has arrived. Nice suit, pal. Did you rent it for the occasion? You might want to teach your old man how to walk in public before bringing him into a four-star restaurant."

Julian did not answer immediately. He took a single, measured step forward, closing the distance between himself and Richard until less than two feet separated them. The sheer disparity in physical presence and commanding energy became instantly suffocating.

Richard’s smirk faltered slightly. The man in blue was younger than he had expected, but the eyes looking down at him did not belong to a mortal employee; they belonged to an executioner.

"Did you," Julian began, his voice dangerously low, each syllable enunciated with surgical precision, "put your hands on my father?"

The air in Le Miroir Doré grew so quiet that the faint dripping of soup from the tabletop onto the floor could be heard clearly.

Chapter 3: The Confrontation and the Name

Richard felt an unwelcome knot tighten in his gut, but his lifelong habit of entitlement quickly drowned the instinctual warning bells. He straightened his back, jutting his chin upward to meet Julian’s towering glare.

"I removed an obstacle," Richard retorted coldly, his voice raised to ensure the surrounding patrons recognized his bravado. "Your father collided with me, ruined my pace, and had the audacity to lecture me on manners. In my world, when something insignificant gets in your way, you brush it aside. He tripped over his own clumsy feet."

"My father did not trip," Julian said, his eyes drilling into Richard’s skull. "You laid your hands upon an elderly man. You threw him to the ground. You humiliated him in public."

"He humiliated himself by existing in a place he can’t afford!" Richard spat, his arrogance returning in full force. "Look at him! He looks like he wandered in from a homeless shelter. This restaurant has standards. People like him ruin the ambiance for legitimate clientele."

Arthur stepped forward slightly, resting a calm, weathered hand on his son’s forearm. "Julian. Do not lower yourself to rage."

Julian did not break eye contact with Richard. The touch of his father’s hand was the only anchor preventing him from physically dismantling the man standing before him.

"You speak of standards," Julian said, his tone chillingly flat. "You speak of belonging. Tell me—what gives a creature like you the authority to dictate who belongs in this city?"

Richard laughed, a smug, contemptuous bark. He turned to his associates, who were watching with uneasy smiles, sensing a dangerous shift in the atmosphere that Richard was too blinded to see.