By the start of Day 4, I'm climbing up the fucking walls, pent up energy buzzing through me like a live current as I pace back and forth across the confines of the witness room like a caged animal. Oh yeah, they have a special room for you when you're a witness. The first 3 days were all procedure, and now I'm getting caged in a room like a gorilla with leprosy, just having to sit here and exist in my ADHD-riddled form without stimulation beyond a single book my mom loaned me.

My body tenses with readiness every time the doors open, every time someone new enters or leaves the room, only to slump back into defeated stillness when it becomes clear that my time has not yet come. The waiting begins to stretch into the end of Day 4, and I'm getting a strong feeling that I'm not coming out yet.

And then, halfway through the day, there's a knock at the door. One of Mrs. Gibson's paralegals, a girl that looks somehow younger than me (she's not, she's 26, I met her before), her expression carefully schooled into a mask of calm professionalism. But this time, there's something lurking just behind her eyes, a hint of excitement and anticipation that sends a jolt of adrenaline surging through my body.

"It's time, Miss Bloodhound."

Three words, simple and direct. But they're enough to send my heart racing, my palms slick with sudden perspiration. I look around for reassurance, anything to keep me grounded to the earth. I blow out a shaky breath, willing my pulse to slow, my breathing to even out. It's okay. I know my notes. I know the truth.

I rise on unsteady legs, my muscles stiff and clumsy after too many hours of sitting, pacing, doing anything but actually being useful. My head is spinning with a million different thoughts and emotions, but I force myself to push them aside, to focus on the task at hand.

This is it, the moment I've been simultaneously dreading and anticipating for what feels like my entire life. The chance to finally take the stand, to look Illya in the eye and tell the world the truth about what he's done.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, Mrs. Pollack's - the paralegal's - touch firm but reassuring. She gives me a small nod, her expression softening into something almost like pride.

"You've got this, Bee. Just remember everything we've gone over, and tell the truth. That's all anyone can ask of you."

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry as the Sahara. I've been waiting for this moment for what feels like an eternity, but now that it's actually here, I can feel my nerves threatening to get the better of me. My stomach is tied up in knots, my palms slick with sweat as I rise on shaky legs to follow the paralegal out of the room. The short walk to the courtroom doors feels like its own special kind of eternity, each step bringing me closer to the crucible of justice that awaits.

The hallway outside is a blur of activity, lawyers and court officers hurrying back and forth with purposeful strides. I try to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on keeping my breathing steady and even as we make our way towards the heavy wooden doors of the courtroom. It's like walking to the gallows, if the gallows was just a bunch of old people deciding if a bad person did a bad thing.

As we approach the entrance, I feel a sudden surge of panic rising up inside me, threatening to overwhelm me entirely. What if I forget something important? What if I say the wrong thing, or freeze up on the stand? A normal person's life doesn't revolve around ensuring a criminal goes to jail. But here I am. The fate of the city, the fate of the world, all of it feels like it's resting on my shoulders in this moment, and the weight of that responsibility is almost too much to bear.

But as I pause on the threshold, my hand resting on the polished wood of the door, I feel a sudden sense of calm wash over me. A strange sort of clarity, despite my nerves. Because this is what I was meant to do, what I was born for. To take this stand and bring this chapter to a close, so that Philly - everyone - can move forward.

I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I look up to see the paralegal giving me a small, encouraging nod. "You've got this, Sam," she says softly, her eyes filled with a quiet confidence that helps to steady my racing heart.

I nod shakily, trying to let her words sink in as I square my shoulders and take a deep, steadying breath. She's right. I can do this. I have to do this. For the sake of everyone who's counting on me, for the sake of the city I've sworn to protect, I have to be strong.

And so, with a final nod to the paralegal, I push open the heavy wooden doors and step into the courtroom.

As I step into the courtroom, I feel like I'm walking into a different world entirely. The air is thick with a sense of gravity and solemnity, the weight of the proceedings pressing down on me like a physical force. I can feel every eye in the room on me as I make my way towards the witness stand, my steps sounding impossibly loud in the hushed stillness.

The first thing that strikes me is the sheer size of the room, the vaulted ceilings and ornate wooden paneling giving it an air of grandeur and solemnity. The second thing that strikes me is the silence, the way every eye in the room seems to be fixed on me as I make my way towards the witness stand. It occurs to me that I've never been in a room this quiet before. Sure, I've been shushed aplenty in class or in the library, but I've never been in a place where the silence felt so... heavy. Like it was a physical thing, pressing down on me from all sides.

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I can feel my heart hammering in my chest as I approach the stand, my footsteps sounding impossibly loud in the hushed stillness of the courtroom. I'm not usually one to feel self-conscious too much, but something about the way everyone is looking at me, the way their gazes seem to bore into me like lasers, makes me want to shrink down into myself and disappear entirely.

I try to take in the scene around me as I walk, my gaze darting from face to face in an effort to ground myself. There's the judge, sitting high above the rest of us on his elevated bench, his expression stern and impassive. Judge Bennett. I don't know much about him, but I've heard he's fair. Strict, but fair. That's something, I guess.

And there, at the defense table, is Jerry Caldwell. I've met him before, back when all of this was just starting to unfold. He'd seemed so relaxed then, so at ease. But there's a sharpness to his gaze now, a intensity that wasn't there before. He might play the part of the laid-back advocate, but there's no denying the brilliance that lurks behind those easy smiles and casual quips.

And then, of course, there's Illya. Chernobyl, as some say. The man at the center of it all, sitting silently in his towering containment suit, the reinforced metal and plexiglass doing little to conceal the weariness that seems to hang over him like a shroud. It's strange, seeing him like this. So small and diminished, despite the hulking armor that encases him. In my memories, he looms so large, a figure of terror and destruction that haunts my every waking moment. But here, in this courtroom, he looks almost... human. Fragile, even, like a strong breeze might blow him away entirely.

I try to push down the swirl of conflicting emotions that rises up inside me at the sight of him, the dizzying mix of anger and pity, fear and compassion that threatens to overwhelm me entirely. I know, logically, that he's a victim in all of this. That his powers are more curse than blessing, a bitter twist of fate that's left him isolated and alone, cut off from the world by the very thing that sets him apart.

I think about the files I've read, the snippets of his history that I've managed to piece together from Liberty Belle's old notes and my own encounters. The exile from his homeland, the desperate bargain struck with the NSRA, the promise of a new life in exchange for his service as a living battery, powering the East Coast in times of need. It's a cruel irony, in a way. That the very thing that makes him so dangerous, so feared and reviled, is also the thing that keeps the lights on and the wheels of industry turning. The thing that lets him stay around unmolested.

And then there's the man himself, the quiet, almost faltering politeness that seems to define his every interaction. I remember our first, our only true meeting, the way he'd seemed so genuinely remorseful, so haunted by the actions that had brought us to that fateful confrontation. He hadn't wanted to fight me, to hurt me. He'd only lashed out when I refused to back down, when I pushed and prodded and forced his hand.

And in that moment, when I'd had the chance to end it all, to put him down like the monster the world believed him to be... I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to snuff out that flicker of humanity, that spark of decency that still lurked somewhere deep inside him. And so I'd hugged him instead, risked my own life to show him a moment of kindness and compassion in a world that had shown him precious little of either.

But now, standing here in this courtroom, with the weight of the city's expectations pressing down on me like a physical thing... I don't know what to do. Because for all my sympathy, for all my understanding of the impossible situation he's been placed in... I can't ignore the truth of what he's done. The lives he's taken, the destruction he's caused, the scars he's left on the very soul of this city.

Liberty Belle, Professor Franklin... they weren't just heroes, larger-than-life figures who loomed large in the public consciousness. They were people, with hopes and dreams and families of their own. And now they're gone, snuffed out in a moment of senseless violence that can never be undone.

And then there are the others, the countless civilians caught in the crossfire of Illya's rampages. The ones suffering from radiation poisoning, their bodies ravaged by an invisible killer that they can't hope to fight. The ones that don't even know that he's cursed them with his sickness. How many lives have been ruined, how many futures cut short, because of the uncontrollable power that rages inside him?

I think of my friends, my fellow heroes, the ones who've stood by my side through thick and thin. They don't know Illya like I do, don't understand the tortured history that's brought him to this point. To them, he's just another villain, another threat to be dealt with in the never-ending battle for truth and justice. And to them, he's the worst of all. A veritable daemon, an ailment, some sort of spiritual thing, like the opposite of a martyr. Like once he's dead and buried, they can finally rest.

And the truth is, I don't know if I have it in me to condemn him, to be the one who puts the final nail in the coffin of his freedom. Because whatever else he might be, whatever horrors he might have inflicted... there's still a part of me that believes in the goodness that lurks somewhere deep inside him. That yearns to give him the chance to make things right, to find some way to atone for the sins of his past.

But I also know that the world doesn't always work that way. That sometimes, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. And that if Illya is truly too dangerous to be allowed to walk free, if his very existence poses a threat to everything we hold dear... then maybe the only choice is to lock him away, to sacrifice his own chance at redemption for the greater good.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, a thought that twists like a knife in my gut as I finally take my seat on the witness stand. Because no matter what I choose, no matter which path I take... someone is going to get hurt. Someone is going to lose, their lives shattered beyond any hope of repair.

And the worst part is, I'm not sure if I'm strong enough to bear the weight of that responsibility. To live with the knowledge that my words, my actions, will be the ones that tip the balance one way or the other.

And so, with a deep breath and a silent prayer to whoever might be listening... I begin.