How dare they have fun. They had gathered to chant hate and wave signs of rejection, in an effort to wound the bravest and loneliest man Ángel had ever known, and they were treating it like a party.

Furious, he jaywalked across Marietta and went into the high-rise that housed the DOR. The guard in the lobby clearly recognized Ángel. “Sir. Do you have an appointment?”

“You see the crowds gathering in the park?” Ángel said. “They’re ready to rumble. Headed this way. Are your guys ready?”

“Oh—” The guard looked out the window, glanced at his phone.

Ángel walked right past him and pushed through the big glass doors into the DOR offices.

It was one big room, a cubicle farm, full of people. They all stopped what they were doing and stared up at him.

Last time he’d been here, he’d been exhausted and hurt, dirty and ashamed. Now he stood and glared at them, letting everyone look their fill. Ángel was not large, and he didn’t take up much psychic space. He avoided trouble, ignored people who were rude, smiled at everyone else. He knew how to use charm and pleasantness to slip under people’s radar, and as a result those who did notice him sometimes tended to see him as weak.

But he had performed his heart out before thousands of people. He had presence, when he wanted it. He knew how to command attention, and as he walked slowly past cubicles and file cabinets toward Neil Jeremy’s office, he was on.

He was so angry, he felt like he was seven feet tall.

These people had evaded him, manipulated him, lied to him. Worse—much worse—they had manipulated and lied to Oberon. Ángel let his eyes roam over the employees of the DOR, feeling his heartbeat.

Oberon was worthy of their respect, their admiration. He was worthy of love, and Ángel loved him. And he was done being pushed around by the DOR.

People throughout the big room fell silent as he walked by. They stood up in their cubicles, eyes drawn by him. As he approached Neil Jeremy’s office, the agent’s secretary, Emma, stood up too. She backed away, not blocking his passage.

The door to Neil Jeremy’s office opened when he reached it. The red-haired agent looked pale.

“Ángel,” he said. “Hi! Come on in and sit down—”

But Ángel wasn’t going to relinquish this audience.

“Did you tell him I didn’t want to see him?” He pitched his voice, not loud, but ringing like a bell, so that every person in the room could hear it.

Jeremy blanched further, but maintained his calm tone. “Let’s not do this out here.”