The reception desk sits empty, except for that low hum of uneasy energy I feel whenever I enter this place now. Doors to offices line the hall, windows behind each frosted pane. I can’t tell who’s inside, but I sense them—eyes shifting, whispers halting, paper shuffling as I pass. The silence is deafening.
“Ms. Dawson.”
Chief Prosecutor Malvern’s voice ricochets off the walls like a gavel. The door at the end of the corridor stands halfway open. I pause before it, inhaling deep, summoning every ounce of control I’ve practiced in courtroom battles. My fingers tremble when I touch the doorframe.
I walk in.
The room is smaller than I recall—laminate desk, two chairs, a wall of legal volumes thick with dust. Malvern stands behindhis desk, arms folded. He’s an iceberg in a tailored suit, gray hair close-cropped. His breath smells faintly of stale tobacco and ambition. The windows are sealed shut. No light sneaks in. This is a trap.
He doesn’t rise. Doesn’t gesture. Just studies me like he’s assessing an asset that’s gone rouge.
I close the door. The room stills.
He finally speaks, clipped and cold: “Sit.”
I ease into the chair opposite him. My ribs ache. I blink once. Twice.
He folds his hands. “Let’s cut to it, Aria. You were abducted. That’s traumatic—no one would question your duty afterwards. But your continued association with Aebon Rexx… well, that’s a different matter.”
I see his meaning. My cooperation, my relationship—the violence surrounding Aebon—it taints me. The office trust fractures when its prosecutors walk too close to criminals, even criminals acting asallies.
He taps a holo-pad. A reprimand flashes: “Witness tampering. Failure to report personal relationship with key witness. Exposure to hostile elements.”
He leans forward. “These are not minor infractions.”
My throat tightens, but I don’t argue.
Malvern’s voice levels as he oversees it: official demotion, stripping of key cases, transfer to a less… visible circuit. Disbarment is on the table—full revocation of license, if the board learns of this romantic entanglement.
He pauses, calculating me. “We lost confidence.”
I nod, as faintly as someone moving inside a dream. No argument for how snarled my moral code is with violence now. No plea that Aebon saved me, that heismy stability—even as I helped dismantle the greatest crime syndicate in decades.
There’s a crack in his voice, but he’s a chameleon of authority. “Tell me you have an explanation.”
I take steady breaths. My voice unfolds like pressed petals. “I’m not here to defend every action. I’m aware I’ve broken protocol.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Aware?”
I scoop the pad from the desk. “Yes. I accept responsibility.”
He narrows his gaze.
I continue: “I can’t... no longer pretend that what I did was justifiable under your terms. Not without arguing that those terms were broken long ago by others.”
Malvern’s jaw tightens.
I lean forward. “I’m not fit to remain here anymore. I don’t belong in a system I defied. Nor can I function under scrutiny that undermines my integrity.”
He straightens. “You’re aware that resignation leaves you with nothing—no badge, no office, no platform. Career level destroyed. No parole.”
He’s listing my future as if it's a death sentence—and he's the hangman.
But I don’t blink.
I lift my holo-pad and place it in front of him.
“Then let this be official.” My voice carries the steel I found in Aebon’s arms. “I hereby resign from the Office of Prosecutor General, effective immediately.”
