The crisp, resounding slap echoed through the vast exhibit hall. The whole world seemed to go still.

Five clear finger marks bloomed across Cynthia's face.

She clutched her cheek, her eyes wide with disbelief. She probably never dreamed that the guy, who'd once followed her every whim and wouldn't even raise his voice, would hit her.

Without pausing, I turned to the equally shocked Diego and delivered a backhanded slap just as forceful. He yelped, staggering back and crashing into the display case behind him.

I shook my numb hand, the pent-up frustration in my chest finally finding release. Pointing at them, I roared with all my strength, "You two don't deserve to be citizens of this country!"

My rebellion, like those two stinging slaps, didn't just strike their faces—it shredded the last veneer of Cynthia's composure.

After a brief shock, rage boiled over them.

"Henry Pratt!" Cynthia growled, her eyes venomous as if ready to tear me apart. "You dare hit me? You're finished in this industry!"

She yanked out her phone, roughly swiped the screen, and dialed a number. The call connected, and she bellowed into it, her voice thick with furious indignation and ruthless certainty.

"Mom, it's me. I'm at the Smithsonian and ran into some trouble. Yeah, that jerk offended Diego and hit me," she said. "Call up the folks at the Interior Department and get him fired immediately."

She sneered, advancing on me step by step, her voice laced with ice. "I won't just get you canned from this job. I can ensure you're blacklisted from the entire cultural sector. Apologize to Diego now, or suffer the consequences!"

Bolstered by her support, Diego shook off his fear, his arrogance reigniting.

He rubbed his swollen cheek, his resentful eyes scanning me before settling on the hall's centerpiece: the Paul Revere silver pitcher with engraved liberty motifs, encased in bulletproof glass. It was a pinnacle of colonial craftsmanship, a one-of-a-kind national icon.

A manic gleam sparked in his eyes. "You say this is real? That all this stuff is genuine?"

He cackled shrilly, like a lunatic, and bolted toward the display. "Fine! I'll smash this one, too. Let's see how you keep up the act. Let's see how you're going to explain to your boss."

This had escalated beyond mere destruction. It was deranged vengeance.

"Don't you dare!" I shouted, my eyes widening as blood rushed to my head.

My body moved on instinct. I lunged forward like a possessed man, arms outstretched to shield the display with my own flesh, positioning myself between him and the treasure.

"Move!" he snapped, unhinged.

He shoved hard at me, trying to push me aside and topple the pitcher. In that split-second crisis, my heart pounded as if it might burst from my chest.

Then, with a bang, the exhibit hall's heavy doors flew open from the outside. "Freeze! ZCPD! Hands in the air!"