The echo of my words hangs in the air like a suffocating miasma. Caldwell shuts his eyes thoughtfully, the barest flicker of discomfort seeping into his veneer. Even Mrs. Gibson looks faintly taken aback by my vehement response, her carefully curated mask of impassivity slipping for a split second. Silence reigns for a handful of agonizing heartbeats. Then Caldwell rallies, straightening in his chair as that glint returns to his eyes.

"Well then," he says, the ghost of a smirk playing about his lips now. "I can certainly appreciate your passion and conviction on the matter, Miss Small. Which is precisely why I believe we should examine this pivotal piece of evidence more thoroughly, wouldn't you agree?"

His hand darts out with serpentine quickness, snatching the baggie containing my phone from the table before I can react. In one smooth, practiced motion, he extracts the device and thumbs the cracked screen to life.

And just like that, the world seems to judder and blur around the edges as the video begins to play. There's my own muffled breathing, the sound of rubble crunching underfoot as I creep towards the ruined refinery. Then Liberty Belle's voice cuts through the darkness like a scythe, dripping with righteous fury.

Sure enough, the contents bear out exactly as I've described to this point. Chernobyl offers Liberty Belle the chance to walk away, to abandon her righteous crusade against him in order to avoid further bloodshed. His insinuations about some larger conspiracy, some shadowy 'system' manipulating them both, bleed through like venom.

Belle's fists clench, tendons straining as she struggles to maintain her composure in the face of such blatant provocation. When she finally finds her voice, it's a strangled rasp of outrage. "You're trying to manipulate me. To make me doubt. I won’t fall for it."

"I am not your enemy, Diane. I never was."

My breath catches in my throat, sharp as shattered glass. The viciousness of Liberty Belle's voice, removed from her lifetime, hits me like a thunderbolt. From an objective eye, this looks like Liberty Belle showing up to murder Illya in cold blood, for revenge. The sounds of battle erupt with shocking abruptness after his monologue – the whickering screech of high-velocity blows, metallic clangs as Chernobyl bats them aside with almost contemptuous ease.

The melee is even more harrowing to witness now than it was in the moment, devoid of any kind of context or justification. Just two juggernaut forces pitted against each other, one wielding overwhelming destructive power while the other desperately attempts to reason, to show mercy.

Caldwell's fingers dance across the screen, advancing the video with deft precision. My stomach knots with dread as the confrontation careens towards its inevitable conclusion, a sick feeling of premonition curdling in the pit of my gut.

Sure enough, there it is – the decisive moment where I can no longer stay on the sidelines, where my youthful selfishness and hero-worship compel me to act against all better judgement. I watch in mute horror as my ghostly avatar charges forward, pipe-spear in hand, heedless of the danger.

The impact of the strike is visceral, a bone-rattling crunch that sends an involuntary shudder ripping through me. Caldwell pauses the video, freezing the frame on my crumpled form as I'm sent hurtling backwards by Chernobyl's retaliatory swat.

"Miss Small, I must address a curious detail in this footage," he says, his tone measured. "It appears you intervened directly in the confrontation between my client and Ms. Williams, despite your earlier testimony indicating you were solely an observer at that juncture."

I brace myself, steeling my nerves to meet his gaze. "Yes, that's correct. I couldn't stand by and watch, not with Diane in such peril."

Caldwell nods thoughtfully. "And what precisely motivated that decision? I understood your designated role that evening was to provide search and rescue support, not to engage Chernobyl directly."

His words carry no judgment or accusation, only genuine curiosity. This isn't the blistering cross-examination I anticipated, but a measured, almost gentle inquiry into my rationale.

"I was worried for Diane," I admit, the honesty surprising even me. "She and Mr. Fedorov had a complex, adversarial history. I could see she was struggling to gain the upper hand. I thought if I could just tip the scales, provide an opening…"

My voice trails off, the memory of Liberty Belle's final, agonizing moments still too raw to recount dispassionately. Caldwell nods, his expression almost sympathetic. I keep expecting Mrs. Gibson to interject, to redirect me or correct my account.

"A commendable impulse, certainly. The desire to aid someone you care for is understandable, even admirable." He pauses, his eyes boring into me. "However, as an objective observer, I must ask – did your actions meaningfully alter the outcome? Or did they, perhaps, exacerbate an already volatile situation in unforeseen ways?"

The question lands like a punch, stealing my breath. It's a question I've asked myself countless times over the past eight months. Did my reckless intervention make a difference, or did it only prolong Belle's suffering? Mrs. Gibson's voice rings out over me like cannon fire. "Objection, calls for speculation and argumentative."

Caldwell inclines his head. "Of course. Miss Small, in your opinion, did your intervention materially change the course of events that evening, or would the outcome have been the same regardless of your actions?"

I take a deep breath, considering. "Honestly, I don't know. I'd like to believe I made a difference, but… it's possible my involvement only complicated an already chaotic situation."

But it doesn't come. Instead, Caldwell's voice is gentle, almost soothing. "I understand, Sam. Believe me. When faced with a loved one in mortal peril, it's natural to react with every fiber of our being, heedless of potential consequences." He shakes his head, a rueful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "The heart often overrules the head in such dire circumstances."

I chance a glance back up at him, momentarily stunned by the unexpected empathy radiating from him. This isn't the 'soulless legal shark' I'd been bracing myself for, the implacable adversary bent on tearing me down. No, this is something else entirely – a man who, for all his professional obligations, seems to genuinely understand the anguish and desperation that drove my actions that fateful night. I see no fire or glass in his eyes.

Mrs. Gibson clears her throat. "Mr. Caldwell, is there a question for the witness?"

Caldwell inclines his head. "Of course. Miss Small, in your own words, please describe your thought process and emotions in the moments leading up to your decision to intervene."

I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. "In that moment, all I could think about was saving Diane. The fear, the desperation… it overrode everything else. I knew it was reckless, but I couldn't just stand by and watch her die. I had to try, even if it seemed hopeless."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Caldwell nods, a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes. "An admirable quality, that singular focus in the face of adversity. Though I must admit, it does raise some… procedural concerns when it comes to the testimony you're providing here today."

Ah, there it is – the other shoe dropping. I brace myself, steeling my nerves once more as I prepare to weather the incoming storm. But Caldwell's next words catch me completely off guard.

"You see, Sam, the fact that you actively engaged with my client during that confrontation introduces a certain… complexity to your testimony. It's important that we understand the full context and motivations behind your actions, so that we can present a clear and accurate picture to the jury."

I frown slightly, not entirely sure where he's going with this. "I'm not sure I follow. I've been completely honest about what happened and why I did what I did."

Caldwell nods, his expression neutral. "I don't doubt that, Sam. But you have to understand, in a case like this, every detail matters. The jury will be looking at all the evidence with a critical eye, trying to piece together a complete understanding of that night's events."

He leans forward slightly, his gaze intense but not unkind. "That's why it's so important that we thoroughly explore your recollection and thought process here today. So that when you take the stand, there are no surprises or inconsistencies that could potentially undermine your credibility."

I feel a flicker of unease in my gut, but I do my best to keep my expression neutral. "I understand. I'm here to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I have nothing to hide."

"I'm glad to hear that, Sam." Caldwell sits back in his chair, his posture relaxing slightly. "Let's continue, then. Can you walk me through what happened immediately after you intervened in the confrontation between Liberty Belle and my client?"

As I begin to recount the chaotic, painful moments that followed, I can't quite shake the feeling that Caldwell is probing for something specific - some weakness or inconsistency he can exploit later on. But I push the thought aside and focus on telling my story as clearly and accurately as I can.

Beside me, Mrs. Gibson listens intently, her pen scratching across her legal pad as she takes notes. Every so often, she interjects with a clarifying question or a gentle reminder to stay on topic. But for the most part, she lets Caldwell lead the examination, her expression inscrutable.

As the minutes tick by and the questions keep coming, I feel a growing sense of exhaustion and emotional fatigue. Reliving that nightmarish experience in such exacting detail is taking a toll, and I find myself longing for a break, a moment to catch my breath and regroup.

I turn to Mrs. Gibson, my voice trembling slightly. "I'm not sure I can keep going. What if I freeze up on the stand? What if my testimony isn't enough to convict Illya?"

Mrs. Gibson places a reassuring hand on my forearm, her touch firm and grounding. "Sam, listen to me. You've faced down unimaginable horrors with unwavering courage. This is no different." She squeezes my arm gently. "The truth is on your side, and we're here to support you every step of the way. Trust in yourself and the strength of your convictions."

I meet her gaze, drawing resolve from the unwavering faith I find there. Taking a deep breath, I nod. "Okay. I can do this."

Caldwell clears his throat, drawing our attention back to him. "If I may, Sam, I'd like to ask about your decision to intervene that night, despite the clear risks to your own safety. What compelled you to act?"

I consider his question carefully, weighing my words. "I couldn't stand by and watch Diane's life be put in danger, Mr. Caldwell. Not when I had the power to help. It's not who I am." My throat tightens as memories of Diane's lifeless form flash through my mind. "I've always tried to do the right thing, even when it gets me in trouble. And it has."

Caldwell nods, his expression thoughtful. "I understand, Sam. And that's an important point to emphasize during the trial. Your actions that night, while undeniably brave, were also deeply personal. The jury needs to understand the emotional context behind your testimony, and how the trauma you experienced may color your recollection of events."

I swallow hard, a wave of nausea rising in my gut. "So, what does that mean for my testimony?"

Caldwell leans back in his chair, his expression neutral. "It means that when you take the stand, the jury will need to weigh the credibility and reliability of your recollection against the other evidence presented. My job, as the defense attorney, will be to ensure they have all the information they need to make that assessment."

I nod, feeling a growing sense of unease. I glance over at Mrs. Gibson, seeking reassurance, but her expression remains inscrutable.

Caldwell presses on. "So, Sam, I need you to be as clear and specific as possible in your answers today. If you don't remember something or aren't sure about a detail, just say so. Don't try to guess or speculate. Do you understand?"

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "Yes, I understand."

Caldwell offers me an encouraging nod. "Good. Because make no mistake, this trial is going to be a battle royale, Sam. One that will require every ounce of your resilience and conviction to weather." He pauses, the ghost of a rueful smile flickering across his lips. "But I have faith that you're more than up to the challenge."

I manage a watery chuckle, some of the tension bleeding from my shoulders. "Thanks, Mr. Caldwell. I… I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"Of course." He gestures towards the forgotten phone still clutched in his hand. "Now, shall we continue with the remainder of this rather… illuminating footage?"

I nod, bracing myself as he presses play. The scenes that follow are every bit as harrowing as I remember, a sickening maelstrom of violence and tragedy that leaves me reeling. But this time, I force myself to watch, to bear witness to the full, unvarnished truth – not just of Illya's actions, but of my own futile, reckless attempt to intervene.

By the time the video ends, I'm shaking, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Caldwell, to his credit, simply waits patiently, allowing the silence to linger as I struggle to regain my composure.

"I… I'm sorry," I finally manage, hating the raw, ragged edge to my voice. "That was just… so hard to watch again."

"Quite understandable," Caldwell replies evenly. "Trauma has a way of sinking its claws in deep, even when we think we've moved past it."

He sets the phone down on the table, fixing me with a level stare. "But you've weathered it before, Sam. And I have every confidence you'll continue to do so, regardless of what I might throw at you during the trial."

I nod shakily, a weak smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence. Lord knows I'm gonna need it."

Caldwell inclines his head, his expression professional but not unkind. "Of course, Miss Small. I believe I've covered all the questions I have for you at this time." He turns to Mrs. Gibson. "Counsel, do you have any follow-up?"

Mrs. Gibson shakes her head. "No further questions at this time. We reserve the right to continue this deposition at a later date if necessary."

Caldwell nods. "Understood. With that, I think we can conclude for today." He rises from his seat, gathering his materials. "Miss Small, thank you for your time and cooperation. Counsel, we'll be in touch regarding next steps."

Mrs. Gibson stands as well, smoothing her skirt. "Likewise, Mr. Caldwell. I look forward to seeing you in court."

A flicker of a smile crosses Caldwell's face. "As do I, Counselor. It's always a pleasure to match wits with a worthy adversary."

Mrs. Gibson allows a faint smirk. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Caldwell. Save it for the jury."

Caldwell chuckles, shaking his head as he makes his way to the door. He pauses, glancing back at me. "Remember, Miss Small, the truth is your greatest weapon. Wield it wisely."

With that, he departs, leaving a palpable shift in the room's atmosphere. I slump back in my chair, feeling the tension drain from my muscles.

Mrs. Gibson turns to me, her expression softening a fraction. "You did well today, Sam. I know it wasn't easy, but you held your own."

I exhale slowly, offering a weak smile. "Thanks to your guidance and prep work. I couldn't have done it without you."

She waves a dismissive hand. "You have an innate strength, Sam. Don't sell yourself short." She gathers her own files, nodding to the court reporter. "Thank you for your diligence today. We'll be in touch regarding the transcript."

The reporter nods, already packing up her equipment. "Of course. I'll have it to you as soon as possible."

Mrs. Gibson turns back to me. "Take the rest of the day to rest and regroup. We'll reconvene tomorrow to start preparing for trial."

I nod, pushing myself to my feet. "Sounds good. And… thanks again, Mrs. Gibson. For everything."

A rare, genuine smile flickers across her face. "We're a team, Sam. Never forget that."

She departs, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the quiet bustle of the reporter finishing her packing.

With that, the tension seems to bleed from the room, replaced by a solemn sense of purpose. As I gather our belongings and head for the exit, I can't help but feel a cautious sense of optimism taking root in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe it's nausea. They both feel sort of the same to me now.