As Caldwell takes his seat, the courtroom seems to let out a collective breath, the tension easing a fraction as the weight of his scrutiny lifts from my shoulders. But even as I sink back into my chair, I can feel the aftershocks still rippling through me, the echoes of his words ringing in my ears like the tolling of a funeral bell.

For a moment, everything feels hazy and indistinct, my thoughts scattered like leaves in a hurricane. The room seems to tilt and sway around me, the faces of the gathered crowd blurring into an indistinguishable mass of color and shadow.

And then, like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman, Mrs. Gibson's voice cuts through the fog, steady and sure.

"Miss Bloodhound," she begins, rising smoothly to her feet. "Let's see if we can clarify a few points, shall we?"

I nod mutely, not trusting myself to speak as she fixes me with a look of calm determination.

"You testified earlier that you've spent a great deal of time poring over Liberty Belle's personal notes and journals." A beat, a slight tilt of her head. "In all your reading, did you ever come across any mention of her planning to confront Illya Federov at that specific location?"

The question settles over me like a cool breeze, cutting through the haze of confusion and doubt with the precision of a scalpel. I can feel the pieces clicking into place, the tangled threads of memory and emotion slowly unraveling into something resembling clarity.

"No," I reply at last, each word emerging slow and deliberate. "No, I did not. There were lots of notes on Illya, but nothing about planning a confrontation."

Mrs. Gibson nods, a flicker of satisfaction crossing her face.

"And in your experience working alongside Liberty Belle, how did she typically approach confrontations with powerful adversaries?" she presses, one eyebrow arched in a silent challenge. "Was she someone prone to rash actions or impulsive decisions?"

An image flashes through my mind, vivid and immediate - Liberty Belle hunched over a table strewn with maps and diagrams, brow furrowed in intense concentration as she plots out every possible angle of attack, every potential pitfall and contingency. The memory brings with it a pang of bittersweet nostalgia, a fleeting reminder of the woman I knew... the woman I lost.

"She was always meticulous," I reply softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Strategic down to her bones. I can't imagine her engaging in any kind of confrontation without an ironclad plan in place."

Mrs. Gibson lets that hang in the air for a moment, allowing the weight of my words to settle over the room like a shroud.

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"Given that," she continues at last, her tone measured and even, "does it seem at all plausible to you that she would have arranged some kind of 'duel', for lack of a better term, without any sort of tactical reasoning behind it?"

The mere suggestion sends a shiver of indignation racing down my spine, a flare of outrage at the very idea of someone questioning Belle's judgment, her dedication to the cause. But even as I open my mouth to object, I force myself to pause, to consider the question with the same clinical detachment that she would have brought to bear.

"No," I say finally, each syllable heavy with conviction. "No, that would have been completely out of character for her."

Mrs. Gibson gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if filing that piece of information away for later use.

"Now, regarding this supposed 'note'," she continues, her gaze flicking briefly to the sheet of paper still clutched in Caldwell's hand. "Is it possible, Miss Bloodhound, that such a thing could have been falsified? Perhaps even written under some form of duress?"

I hesitate, my mind racing as I try to navigate the treacherous currents of speculation and conjecture.

"It's... possible, I suppose," I hedge at last, choosing my words with exacting care. "But I can't say for certain one way or the other."

Mrs. Gibson seems to accept that answer, her expression never wavering as she presses forward. Caldwell looks at me and smiles. Whose side is he on?

"One final point of clarification, if you would," she says, her voice ringing out clear and strong in the hushed stillness of the courtroom. "Can you state unequivocally, for the record, that the video footage we've just witnessed is an accurate and unaltered depiction of the events as you personally observed them? That there was no alteration, post-processing, or editing done to the video?"

I take a deep breath, maybe the fiftieth one today in the past hour, feeling it rattle in my lungs like a gust of wind through a canyon. And then, with every ounce of conviction I can muster, I look Mrs. Gibson dead in the eye and give my answer.

"Yes," I say, my voice steady and unwavering. "Yes, it is."

The words seem to hang in the air for a moment, heavy with the weight of finality. Mrs. Gibson gives a small, satisfied nod, a flicker of something almost like pride dancing behind her eyes.

"Thank you, Miss Bloodhound," she says softly, a note of genuine warmth creeping into her voice. "I have no further questions."

With that, she turns and strides back to her seat, head held high and shoulders squared, every inch the consummate professional. Judge Bennett surveys the room for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lawyers and spectators like a hawk searching for prey.

"The witness is excused," he intones at last. "Thank you for your testimony, Miss Bloodhound."

The words wash over me like a wave, a sense of bone-deep exhaustion settling into my limbs as the tension of the past few hours finally begins to drain away. And as I stand before this austere court, I swear I see something. I see Liberty Belle. Have I stayed true to what I saw? Have I defended her?

I saw her for the briefest of moments, and yet they replay in my head, ticking on repeat in some kind of hideous loop, and as I rise from my chair, legs teetering, a yawning expanse between her and myself from where she once was, I can only hope I did the right thing.

I turn to step down from the witness stand, the eyes of everyone still burning holes in my back as I take my leave.

This isn't over. My part in these proceedings is done, but Illya's fate still hangs in the balance.

And as I walk out those courtroom doors, the taste in my mouth equal parts exhaustion and bitter determination, I consider the truth.