The moment Mrs. Gibson takes her seat, a hush falls over the courtroom like a thick, smothering blanket. For a few seconds, the only sound is the quiet shuffling of papers and the creaking protests of aged wooden chairs as the assembled audience shifts and settles, eyes fixed on the lone figure rising from the defense table.

Jerry Caldwell cuts an imposing figure as he stands, his broad shoulders filling out the crisp lines of his tailored suit with the easy grace of a natural athlete. For a moment, he simply stands there, dark eyes sweeping over the courtroom with a piercing intensity that seems to strip away all pretense and artifice, leaving nothing but the cold, hard truth lurking beneath.

Then, with a slight incline of his head and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, he turns to address me. "Miss Bloodhound, thank you for your testimony."

There's a smoothness to his voice, a practiced polish that speaks of countless hours spent honing his craft in courtrooms just like this one. But beneath the honeyed veneer, I can sense the razor-sharp intellect lurking just beneath the surface, the coiled energy of a predator ready to strike.

"Your Honor, the defense would like to introduce a new piece of evidence," he announces, his tone steady and self-assured. The crowd murmurs with curiosity, heads craning for a better look as Caldwell retrieves a folder from his table and strides purposefully towards the bench.

Judge Bennett looks up from his notes, bushy brows knitting together in a look of wary interest. "Proceed, Counselor."

Caldwell hands the folder to the bailiff, who quickly passes it along to the waiting judge. There's a beat of hushed anticipation as Judge Bennett flips open the folder and begins to leaf through its contents, his expression inscrutable.

"This is Liberty Belle's will," Caldwell explains, his voice carrying clearly through the rapt silence of the courtroom. "It includes a bequest to Miss Bloodhound. We intend to show that Miss Bloodhound is the legal recipient of Liberty Belle's detective notes and documents."

The judge pauses at that, a small frown creasing his brow as he examines the document more closely. For a few seconds, the only sound is the rustle of paper and the muted ticking of the large wall clock mounted above the jury box.

Then, with a curt nod, Judge Bennett sits back in his chair. "Very well," he intones, his gravelly baritone filling the room. "Mark this as Defense Exhibit 12."

The bailiff steps forward to take the folder, quickly jotting down the appropriate notation before returning it to Caldwell's waiting hands.

Rising gracefully to his feet, Caldwell turns to me, eyes glinting with something I can't quite place. Anticipation? Curiosity? I don't know. I can't help but squirm slightly under the weight of his gaze, my earlier confidence suddenly feeling as flimsy and insubstantial as tissue paper in a hurricane.

"Miss Bloodhound," he begins, each word measured and precise. "Do you recognize this document?"

I swallow hard, throat suddenly dry as a desert. Yes. I extremely recognize this document.

My heart is pounding so loudly I'm half-convinced the entire courtroom can hear it.

"Yes, I do," I reply, each word emerging like a rusty nail being dragged across concrete. "It's Liberty Belle's will."

Caldwell nods, a hint of satisfaction flickering across his face like a shadow. "And can you confirm that, according to this will, you are the legal recipient of her detective notes and documents?"

"...Yes, I am," I manage at last.

Caldwell's nod this time is curt, businesslike. "Your Honor, I move to admit Defense Exhibit 12 into evidence."

Judge Bennett takes a moment to flip through the document one final time, bushy brows furrowed in concentration. Then, with an air of dignified resignation, he gives a slow, ponderous nod.

"Exhibit 12 is admitted," he rumbles, and it's like a physical weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Caldwell wastes no time pressing his advantage, turning back to me with an intensity that's almost palpable, rolling off him in waves. "As the recipient of Liberty Belle's documents, you must be quite familiar with her personal handwriting, correct?"

I can feel my pulse quicken, a cold sweat breaking out along my hairline. Because suddenly, I know exactly where this is going, exactly what he's hoping to prove with this line of questioning. I know it's coming before he does.

"Yes," I reply cautiously, my voice little more than a hoarse whisper. I swallow, and regain my speech. "Yes, that's right. I've read them extensively, after she... passed."

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Caldwell's mouth as he reaches into his jacket and produces a single sheet of paper, holding it aloft like a magician presenting his next trick.

"I have here a handwritten note," he announces, his words ringing through the hushed stillness of the courtroom like a clarion call. "A note we believe to have been penned by none other than Liberty Belle herself. Miss Bloodhound, I'd like you to take a look at this and tell me - do you recognize the handwriting?"

Time seems to slow to a crawl as he approaches the witness stand, each step measured and deliberate. The whispers have died away now, replaced by a watchful silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. I pull at the collar of my suit with one finger, trying to get some air, as Caldwell reaches out to hand me the note.

My hands shake as they clutch the edges of the torn-out page, my eyes blurring as I try to force myself to focus. Smooth, rounded letters dance across the page in dark blue ink, each stroke as elegant and precise as a swordfighter's lunge.

And there, written plainly in the graceful swoop of her signature: a message inviting Illya Federov to meet her at the precise location of their final confrontation. Almost polite. "PES Refinery. 12/7. Sundown. Finish this."

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

My blood turns to ice in my veins, a leaden weight settling in the pit of my stomach like a stone.

I can feel the stares of the courtroom boring into me like a thousand red-hot needles, can sense the growing susurrus of excitement and speculation as the gathered crowd begins to grasp the full implications of what they're witnessing.

"It looks like her handwriting," I hear myself say, the words sounding distant and tinny to my own ears.

Caldwell retrieves the note and gives a small, triumphant nod, dark eyes glittering with something uncomfortably close to smug satisfaction. Everything melts in comparison - I can barely see, and I'm not sure it's from the tears in my eyes.

"Your Honor, the defense would like to submit this note into evidence," he declares, holding the precious piece of paper aloft like a holy relic. "We believe its contents to be highly relevant, as they suggest Liberty Belle deliberately invited - and provoked - the very confrontation that led to her untimely demise."

A gasp ripples through the courtroom at that, a wave of shock and disbelief that quickly gives way to a rising tide of excited chatter. Some had seemed to expect this, and many had not. Journalists scribble notes furtively. Mrs. Gibson is already on her feet, one hand raised in objection.

"Objection, Your Honor, lack of expertise. The witness is hardly a qualified forensic expert in handwriting analysis," she protests, voice tight with barely-contained frustration. "She cannot possibly authenticate this supposed note with any degree of certainty."

Judge Bennett frowns, his craggy features etched in lines of stern contemplation as he raps the gavel once, sharply. The chatter in the room dies, leaving only the sound of blood rushing in my ears. "Sustained," he intones at last, his voice a low, ominous rumble. "The witness may offer her opinion, but the court will require more concrete forensic evidence before accepting this note as genuine."

Caldwell dips his head in acknowledgment, that small, knowing smile never wavering for an instant. "Of course, Your Honor." Then, turning back to me with an air of exaggerated patience: "Miss Bloodhound, based on your stated familiarity with Liberty Belle's penmanship... would you say this note could have been written by her?"

I want to scream. I want to leap from my seat and snatch the damning piece of paper from his hands, tear it to shreds and let the ashes scatter to the four winds. But I know that's not an option. I adjust my helmet.

"It... seems consistent with her handwriting style, yes," I manage at last, each word emerging with even more reluctance than the last.

My fingernails dig into my palms. I know, in the end, there was only one outcome to this entire affair. Liberty Belle went to that fight knowing she would die. She'd made peace with it. I had too. So had everyone else. It was the only way.

"Miss Bloodhound, did you witness or were you aware of any plans by Liberty Belle to confront Illya Federov specifically at that location?" Caldwell asks, and if it was possible for the ice in my veins to become... icier, it would have. Ice squared. Ice nine.

Did I know she was setting up surveillance equipment at the area? Around the area? Sure. But that's not what he asked.

"No, I was not aware of or witness to any plans of the sort," I answer, feeling sick to my stomach.

"Let us return our attention to the video footage, shall we?" Caldwell suggests, his tone light and almost conversational, as if we were simply two friends chatting over coffee rather than adversaries locked in a deadly game of judicial chess.

I can only nod mutely, not trusting myself to speak as he continues. "You mentioned earlier that you captured this recording under highly stressful, even traumatic circumstances. Do you think it's possible, Miss Bloodhound, that your perceptions may have been colored somewhat by the fog of fear and adrenaline?"

The question hits me like a punch to the gut, stealing the breath from my lungs and sending my thoughts spinning into a dizzying spiral. I was, of course, fully prepared for this. The deposition. This part, I'm familiar with. But to hear it out loud, in front of all these people - my face goes red with misery. Heat flows through my veins.

Mrs. Gibson rises out of her seat like a jack-in-the-box on Xanax, brow furrowed. "Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative."

But Judge Bennett waves her off with an impatient flick of his wrist. "Overruled," he grumbles, fixing me with a penetrating stare. "The witness may respond."

Silence rises in my throat like bile, threatening to choke me where I sit.

"Yes," I pour out, after what feels like forever. "I think it's possible. But I swear, I was laser-focused on helping Belle, first by documenting the battle and then... and then by trying to intervene directly when I thought her life was in imminent danger."

Caldwell nods slowly, dark eyes glittering with a sort of detached fascination, like a scientist observing a particularly intriguing specimen. And then, as if sensing a chink in my armor, he presses forward with almost casual ruthlessness.

"You say you felt compelled to intervene," he muses, one finger tapping thoughtfully against his chin. "Do you think, Miss Bloodhound, that your actions in doing so very likely escalated the confrontation far beyond what may have initially been intended?"

If I close my eyes tight enough I can almost hear the snapping of bone, feel the meat part way under the touch of both skin and steel, feel blooming flowers in my skull. The taste rises up my throat like acid only to burn away as the smell comes tumbling after. If I sit still another moment I'll scream myself hoarse.

"I don't think I can agree with that assertion, no," I reply at last, my voice shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. "Liberty Belle was unaware of my presence until the fight was already well underway. What I do know is that in that moment, his intent seemed to be to end her life, and I... I couldn't just stand by and let that happen. Not without at least trying to help."

For a moment, silence hangs heavy in the air, throbbing like an open wound. Caldwell watches me with hooded eyes, his expression unreadable, and I feel the weight of judgment pressing down on me from all sides, squeezing the breath from my lungs and the strength from my limbs, crushing me down to my component atoms and then scattering me to the wind.

Only one thing keeps me anchored amidst the chaos, one slender thread of purpose stretching out through the red that rims my vision.

The truth.

My mouth opens to continue... but no sound comes out. Did I not drink enough water? Eat enough food? Sit still long enough for the words to unstick from the roof of my mouth and spill out for everyone to judge? Liberty Belle's words pierce my thoughts, spearing them right through.

Caldwell's eyes narrow to dark slits, his gaze boring into me like a physical force. "Miss Bloodhound, in his speech before the confrontation, Mr. Federov made several rather... extraordinary claims. Allegations of a government conspiracy to utilize his abilities for power generation, I believe." Another pause, another beat of suffocating silence. "Did you put any stock in these wild accusations? Or do you believe that they were nothing more than the self-serving manipulations of a cornered criminal?"

At that, Mrs. Gibson is already out of her seat, arm slashing through the air in a gesture of controlled frustration. "Objection, Your Honor. Speculation and relevance."

Judge Bennett inclines his head a fraction of an inch, lips pursed in a thin, disapproving line. "Sustained," he rules, the single syllable cracking through the room like a gunshot. "Mr. Caldwell, I must insist that you confine your questioning to the actual events depicted in the video."

Caldwell nods once, expression smooth and unruffled as polished marble. "Of course, Your Honor. My apologies." But there's a glimmer of something almost like triumph in his eyes as he turns back to me, and suddenly I understand with sickening clarity.

He didn't need me to answer that last question. He just needed to plant the seed, to let the mere suggestion of something rotten at the core take root in the minds of the jury. I push down on the thought, strangling it before it can fully form. Across from me, Caldwell straightens his lapels, that easy smile never slipping from his face.

"No further questions at this time, Your Honor," he says smoothly, giving me a small nod that feels more like a dismissal than an acknowledgement.