"Please state your name and occupation for the record," the bailiff intones, his voice a flat, emotionless monotone.

Suddenly, my helmet feels very tight. I'm made deeply aware of the way the mask binds my vision, hanging at the edge. So long in the witness room, waiting, it let it blend into my perception, but it suddenly flares back to life. Alive. Angry. Blocking me. The wig feels extra itchy, the one that makes my hair look like it was before all of it fell out.

"People know me by the codename 'Bloodhound,'" I reply, my throat suddenly dry as I force the words out past the lump in my throat. "I'm a junior superhero-in-training. I just renewed my JLUMA - my Juvenile License to Utilize Metahuman Abilities a couple of days ago. And I'm a student, when I'm not doing that. I've been told that I'm allowed to not say my actual name, for my own safety."

The words hang in the air for a moment, a sudden, oppressive silence falling over the courtroom as every eye fixes on me with laser-like intensity. And in that moment, as the weight of my own destiny seems to press down on me like a physical thing... I've never felt so small, so utterly lost and alone in the face of the storm that's about to break.

I glance at the judge. The judge eyes me back and nods, confirming that I'm allowed to proceed without revealing my real name.

The bailiff looks past me, through me. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"I do," I say, one hand raised. I swallow hard, feeling the simultaneous urge to cry and vomit rising within me.

But there's no turning back now, no escape from the path that's been laid out before me. And so, with a final, shuddering breath... I begin to speak, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and resolve as I prepare to lay bare the truth of what I've seen, what I've lived, in this mad, impossible world.

The prosecution starts with a set of firm, professional questions, and I do my best to answer them clearly and accurately. She asks me about the events of that fateful day, about what I saw and heard in the moments leading up to the confrontation with Chernobyl. I describe the chaos, the fear, the snow. The frozen temperatures. The way the entire city went on high alert. I see people nodding in recognition. Of course, this is their city too, they remember that day well.

Mrs. Gibson asks me about Liberty Belle, about the final moments of her life as she faced down the rampaging titan with a courage and selflessness that still takes my breath away - or, at least, that's how it gets framed. I can feel the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes as I recount her last words, the fierce determination that burned in her gaze as she threw herself into the fray one final time.

For the umpteenth time, I recount the fight. I try not to think about the fact that I know what Mr. Caldwell will do. That I know in advance just how he'll pull me apart. But it's not his turn yet.

Mrs. Gibson asks me about the end of the confrontation, standing over Liberty Belle's body. I describe the way he'd loomed over me, a towering figure of dread and menace, his containment suit crackling with barely-contained energy. I talk about the way he'd spoken to me, the quiet, almost resigned tone of his voice as he pleaded with me to walk away, to leave him be in his misery and isolation.

Where I go, do not follow, child.

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But even as I speak, even as I paint a picture of a man haunted by his own demons, consumed by a power he can barely control... I can't help but feel a flicker of doubt, a nagging sense that there's more to the story than I'm seeing. Because for all the destruction he's caused, for all the lives he's shattered... there's a humanity to Illya that I can't quite shake. I've been practicing in the mirror for months and even I can't find the conviction to sound firm about my own testimony. I feel like throwing up, but the vomit never comes.

And as the questions continue, as the prosecution probes deeper into the heart of the matter... I find myself torn, caught between my duty to the truth and my own sense of compassion, my own belief in the fundamental goodness that lurks somewhere deep inside even the most lost and damaged of souls.

It's a delicate balance, a tightrope walk across a yawning abyss of doubt and uncertainty. But it's a question without an easy answer, a Rubix cube with the corners fucked up that seems to defy any simple solution, the kind where someone switched the stickers in a way that makes it unsolvable but you don't know until you're two hours fiddling with it. And as the minutes tick by, as the courtroom seems to close in around me like a vice. I can feel the weight of it all pressing down on me, threatening to crush me beneath the sheer enormity of the task at hand.

Because this isn't just about Illya, about one man's fate in the face of his own terrible power.

And as I sit there on the witness stand, my heart hammering in my chest like a drum... I can't help but feel like I'm balanced on the edge of a knife, caught between two equally terrifying possibilities.

To condemn a man to a lifetime of suffering and isolation, to seal his fate with the stroke of a pen and the weight of my own word... or to risk unleashing a force of unimaginable destruction on a world that's already teetering on the brink, to gamble everything on the faint hope of redemption and grace.

It's an impossible choice, a decision that seems to defy any easy answer. And as the prosecution finally falls silent, as the eyes of the courtroom fall on me once more... I can feel the weight of it all bearing down on me, crushing me beneath the sheer magnitude of the moment.

But even in the face of that impossible burden, even as the fear and doubt threaten to overwhelm me entirely... I know that I can't back down, that I can't give in to the temptation to take the easy way out. Because the truth is all I have, the only thing that I can cling to in the face of the gathering darkness.

And so I take a deep breath, feeling it rattle through my lungs like a gust of wind through a canyon.

Then, Mrs. Gibson says the magic words, and the faint, dizzy distractedness that has been squeezing into my ears and temples like a bunch of parasitic worms suddenly snaps into crystal-clear focus. She says something, and the world comes back into place.

"I'm sorry, one more time?" I ask.

"Miss Bloodhound, in addition to your eyewitness testimony, do you possess any other evidence relevant to the events you've described, specifically regarding the confrontation between Liberty Belle and the defendant?" Mrs. Gibson asks, her voice clear and precise.

I swallow hard and nod. "Yes, I do. I recorded a video of the incident, including Liberty Belle's final moments and her death, using my phone."

Mrs. Gibson nods, then turns to address the judge. "Your Honor, the prosecution wishes to present this video evidence to the court, as it provides a firsthand account of the events in question."

Judge Bennett looks to the defense table. "Mr. Caldwell, do you have any objections to the admission of this video evidence?"

Jerry Caldwell rises, his expression pensive. "No objections, Your Honor, but the defense reserves the right to challenge the authenticity and interpretation of the video during cross-examination."

"Noted," Judge Bennett responds. "The video evidence will be admitted. Miss Bloodhound, please provide the video file to the court clerk for display."

With trembling hands, I retrieve my phone from the evidence bag and unlock it, queuing up the harrowing footage. As the clerk connects the device to the courtroom's display system, I feel my heart pounding in my chest, a deafening drumbeat that threatens to drown out all other sounds.

And then, with the press of a button, the video begins to play, casting the courtroom into a hushed, horrified silence as the events of that fateful night unfold once more, projected larger than life for all to see.