The conference room is small and stuffy, generic in a way that makes it feel almost purposefully devoid of character. Just four bland walls, a battered folding table, and an array of uncomfortable-looking chairs arranged in a tight semicircle.

I try not to squirm as I take my assigned seat, resisting the urge to fidget with the omnipresent legal pad and pen that have become permanent accoutrements over the past few weeks. Beside me, Mrs. Gibson exudes an aura of unflappable calm and confidence, back ramrod straight as she lays out her materials with crisp, practiced motions.

Across the table, the defense attorney offers me a disarming smile, all gleaming white teeth and carefully cultivated affability. "Samantha Small, I presume? Jerry Caldwell, it's a pleasure to meet you at last."

His handshake is firm, enveloping my much smaller hand in a warm, calloused grip. Despite his evident size and strength, there's nothing overtly intimidating about him. If anything, the vibe he gives off is more 'overgrown fratboy' than 'soulless legal shark'.

"Uh, hi. You can just call me Sam," I reply, doing my best to match his easy demeanor.

Mrs. Gibson clears her throat meaningfully. "Shall we get started, Mr. Caldwell? We're on a rather tight timeline here."

"But of course, of course." Caldwell releases my hand and settles back into his chair with an easy grace. "We're all professionals here, no need for undue ceremony. Although…" He flicks a glance towards the court reporter, who has been watching our exchange with a suitably bored expression. "I do believe the young lady needs to be sworn in before we proceed."

The court reporter – a pinched-looking woman in her fifties – nods curtly and pushes a battered legal tome across the table towards me. "Place your left hand on the book, please."

I do as instructed, feeling a twinge of apprehension as my palm comes to rest on the age-softened leather binding. This is it – the point of no return. No matter how 'casual' Caldwell tries to make this whole proceeding seem, swearing that oath is what separates my testimony from idle chit-chat.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" the court reporter intones, her nasal voice lending the words a weighty gravitas.

I take a breath to steel my nerves. "I do."

"Excellent, excellent," Caldwell interjects with a broad grin, as if we've just commenced some light-hearted parlor game rather than engaged in solemn legal proceedings. "Then let's not dally any longer, shall we?"

And just like that, the tone is set – conversational, almost chummy, yet underscored by an undercurrent of intensity that belies the stakes at play. Caldwell leans back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him as he regards me with those intelligent dark eyes.

"Now Sam, I'll start us off with a somewhat broad query – can you please describe your history with the individual known as Illya Fedorov, codename 'Chernobyl', in your own words?"

His phrasing is carefully neutral, providing no hints about where he might try to steer the narrative. I shoot a sidelong glance towards Mrs. Gibson, who gives me an infinitesimal nod of encouragement. Right, just stick to the facts. The truth and nothing but, plain and simple.

Sucking in a breath, I launch into my well-rehearsed account. "My first encounter with Mr. Fedorov was back in early December of last year. I was part of the emergency evacuation efforts when he arrived in Philadelphia, though my specific role at the time was focused on search and rescue rather than direct confrontation."

"I ended up breaking protocol, however," I continue in as even a tone as I can manage. "After Liberty Belle – Diane Williams, director of the Delaware Valley Defenders – confronted Illya alone, I disobeyed orders to pursue them against the advisement of my team leader."

Caldwell's eyebrows rise. "Breaking protocol is a serious matter, Miss Small. What compelled you to take such a reckless course of action, in your own words?"

Mrs. Gibson interjects, "Objection, counsel is leading the witness. Please rephrase the question."

Caldwell nods. "My apologies. Miss Small, can you explain what motivated your decision to pursue Liberty Belle and Chernobyl that day?"

There it is – the first subtle jab, probing for potential cracks in my credibility or judgement. I shoot another glance towards Mrs. Gibson, but she remains perfectly stoic and impassive. No help there, it seems.

"I was… concerned for Liberty Belle's safety," I reply carefully. "She and Illya had a complicated history from what I could gather. I worried she might be in over her head confronting him alone."

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"But that was purely speculative on your part, wasn't it?" Caldwell presses, his eyes intense. "You had no direct knowledge of their prior dealings, correct?"

I hesitate, realizing the logical trap. Claiming ignorance would undermine my justification, but elaborating on my suspicions would only invite further scrutiny.

"Objection," Mrs. Gibson says, letting me breathe a sigh of relief. "Calls for speculation."

Caldwell rephrases. "Miss Small, did you have any direct knowledge of the nature of Liberty Belle and Chernobyl's prior relationship?"

I take a breath. "While my direct involvement with Mr. Fedorov was limited prior to that December incident, I was aware of certain unconventional aspects of his history from Liberty Belle's case notes, which she shared with me before her death."

I breathe out a half-lie. Most of what I knew about him was her warning me to not get involved, or I would die.

I hear her voice in my ears.

I served my time.

You need to stay away.

Caldwell's expression shifts into something approaching grudging respect. "I see. Well, that certainly recontextualizes your supposedly rash decision in a new light, does it not?" He leans forward, elbows braced on the table. "So you believe this prior… entanglement, for lack of a better word, had given Chernobyl an unhealthy degree of leverage or influence over Ms. Williams? One that might cloud her judgement when confronting him?"

For a moment, I'm almost lulled into a sense of ease and camaraderie, like we're two scholars debating ethics rather than a witness and a defense attorney squaring off.

I consider my response carefully. "I don't think 'leverage' is the right word, Mr. Caldwell. More like… I don't know, some sense of obligation or complicity, maybe? Like she felt beholden to see things through. Because of Professor Franklin."

He nods slowly, absorbing my words. "A fair assessment, I'd say. And one that no doubt weighed heavily on Ms. Williams' psyche as things escalated to their tragic conclusion."

The temperature in the room seems to dip by several degrees as the weight of his statement settles over us. I find myself tensing involuntarily, the hairs prickling on the back of my neck. Up until now, we've been dancing around the true crux of the matter in an almost academic sense. But there's no avoiding it any longer – we've arrived at the heart of darkness.

Liberty Belle's death.

Caldwell must sense my sudden unease because he presses on without mercy. "Which brings us to the crucial piece of evidence you've submitted as part of these proceedings." He produces a ziplock baggie from his briefcase and slides it across the table to me. Inside is a very familiar object – my battered old iPhone, complete with the cracked screen and scuffed blue case I know so well.

"You contend that the contents of this device contain an audio-visual recording of the final confrontation between Ms. Williams and my client on the night of December 18th, 2023?" It's not phrased as a question, but a statement of fact. Still, he regards me expectantly, dark eyes glittering with intensity.

I swallow hard, steeling myself as I lift the baggie and give it a tentative shake. My phone rattles almost forlornly, as if pleading to be left out of all this nastiness.

"That's correct," I reply, keeping my tone as measured and even as I can manage. "I… kept recording throughout the entire incident. It captured everything from Illya's discussion with Liberty Belle to the… the fight itself, and its ultimate conclusion."

The words feel like shards of glass in my throat. I chance another glance towards Mrs. Gibson, searching for any hint of support or reassurance. But her expression remains as inscrutable as always, revealing nothing. I've shown her the file before. Always stopping before it gets bad.

Caldwell lets the weighted silence linger for several seconds, regarding me shrewdly. When he finally speaks again, his voice is soft and deceptively gentle.

"I can only imagine how traumatic that entire experience must have been for you, Sam. Watching someone you clearly admired meet such an unfortunate end, despite your valiant efforts to intervene." He shakes his head slowly, feigning a somber remorse that somehow seems entirely genuine.

It's almost enough to disarm me completely, to pull me into his emotional rabbit hole. Almost, but not quite. There's still that keening sense of wrongness screaming at the edges of my consciousness, urging me to keep my guard up.

"Which is why I must ask," he continues, "are you confident your recollection of these events is entirely objective? Free of any unconscious embellishments or omissions shaped by personal biases?"

Mrs. Gibson speaks up. "Objection. Argumentative."

Caldwell raises a placating hand. "I'll rephrase. Miss Small, have you reviewed the audio-visual recording in its entirety to ensure your recollection aligns with the objective evidence?"

I take a breath. "Yes, I have. Multiple times."

"And in your opinion, is your memory of the incident consistent with what the recording depicts?"

"Yes, it is."

Caldwell nods, seeming to accept this. "One more question, then. Considering the understandably traumatic nature of the events captured in this recording, do you feel you're able to testify about its contents in an impartial, fact-based manner?"

I meet his gaze steadily. "Yes, Mr. Caldwell. I'm fully prepared to testify to what I witnessed, both in person and as documented on that recording."

I take a moment to gather myself, shoving aside the thunderous roar of memory that threatens to swamp my senses. Then I meet his probing gaze with a level look of my own.

"You're right, Mr. Caldwell – Liberty Belle's death was extremely traumatic for me to witness." My voice doesn't so much as waver, a product of Mrs. Gibson's tireless drilling more than anything else. "She was a friend, a mentor, someone I looked up to and strived to emulate. So yes, emotions were undoubtedly running high in those final moments, especially when…"

I have to swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. "Especially when she died in my arms after being so brutally overpowered by your client's weaponized suit. I'd be lying if I said it didn't affect me."

Caldwell's brow furrows ever so slightly.

The memory surges like a tidal wave, but I don't flinch away from its blistering intensity. Instead, I ride the crest of the recollection, channeling all that bottled pain and anguish into an almost clinical recitation. "I have it all recorded – the taunts, the combat, the fatal blows he inflicted without mercy or hesitation. So believe me when I say there's no room for bias or embellishment in my account. Just the raw, horrific truth of what your client is capable of unleashing when left to his own devices."