The younger guard hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at the massive, brushed-steel 'STERLING' emblem mounted on the marble wall. A flicker of doubt crossed his face. But Braddock wasn't having it. "Don't listen to his garbage! He's probably casing the joint or trying to steal laptops. Put your hands behind your back!" Braddock lunged forward, grabbing Marcus’s left arm with brutal force, knocking the thermal mug to the floor. The hot black coffee spilled across the pristine white marble, looking like a dark, expanding wound.
"Get your hands off me!" Marcus roared, his gravitational authority finally breaking through his calm demeanor. He didn't fight back, knowing exactly how this narrative would be spun if he did, but he locked his muscles, refusing to be easily moved.
"Stop resisting! Stop resisting!" Braddock yelled, though Marcus was simply standing his ground. The other two guards, panicked by Braddock's shouting, rushed in. Three grown men piled onto a 54-year-old executive. They slammed Marcus face-first into the cold, polished surface of the reception desk. The digital tablet he had been holding clattered to the ground, the screen spider-webbing into a hundred jagged pieces.
Marcus gritted his teeth as a heavy knee pressed into his lower back. The cold, unforgiving steel of handcuffs bit violently into his wrists, ratcheting tighter with each of Braddock's aggressive shoves. He was pinned against the very mahogany desk he had custom-ordered from Italy a decade ago.
"Got him," Braddock panted, yanking Marcus upright by the chain of the cuffs. Marcus’s shoulder screamed in pain, but he kept his face completely stoic. He refused to give this man the satisfaction of seeing him break. "Now you're going to the basement holding cell until PD gets here, Mr. Billionaire." But as they turned to drag him away, the distinct chime of the executive elevator echoed through the lobby.