“You did good work here,” I continue, deliberately gentle. “If you ever want advice—legal or otherwise—find me. I still believe in justice.”
He nods curtly and moves past me, swaddled in silent censure. Doors creak behind us; dust drifts.
I stand rooted for a moment, the courthouse stillness seeping into my bones. Justice feels fragile here—like a porcelain vase smashed, now replaced with reinforced walls and covert deals. Am I doing justice? Or just keeping terror at bay?
I glide deeper into the ruins, craning toward the judges’ dais—the same one where I fiercely delivered closing arguments. Now it’s collapsed, charred wood rotting, metal ribs exposed like bones. I climb onto it, boots scraping hollow frames. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, summoning the old sense of purpose.
Once, every case here mattered. The law was clean. I was clean.
Now I manage order through fear and respect—a necessary hypocrisy in the eyes of many. And some days I wonder: is that enough?
I step down and wander toward the front steps one last time. Below me, the city waits—Goldwin bright and thrumming. Our work pulses across dawn-lit avenues, replacing mob violence with enforced stability. My Sect-led outreach programs offer new skylines to old streets. Kid clinics and job training stand where bodies once fell. That’s power. That’s change.
But at what cost?
My comm-alert vibrates—a curt message from Aebon’s office:Ready when you are.
I glance back at the courthouse, picturing its ghosts: witness testimonies torn apart by threats, judges bribed into silence, families seeking closure after losing everything. The courthouse never burned because of a single bomb; it burned for every life it couldn’t protect.
I breathe out slowly, taste ash still clinging to my throat.
I close my eyes and whisper:It must be enough.
I step away from the ruins, boots clicking on rubble. The city’s pulse calls me back. I walk past that young prosecutor again—this time he doesn’t look away. Instead, he pauses, nods slowly.
I nod back, acknowledging the question in his eyes:Is this still justice?
And I reply, in silence:It is if we keep giving them reasons to believe.
I leave the courthouse behind and step into the rising sun. The world awaits.
I settle onto the cracked marble steps of the old courthouse just as dusk drapes Goldwin in its violet glow. The air tastes of smoke and new beginnings, a reminder that even ruins can host moments of quiet transition. Within minutes, Aebon’s silhouette appears, edges softened by the city’s hum behind him. He moves with the casual authority of a man who knows he’s earned everyinch of this world—and yet, tonight, he carries something else in his stride: fatigue laced with hope.
He doesn’t speak at first. The two of us sit in companionable silence, the hush stretching between us like a delicate thread. The city’s pulse—hovercars, distant laughter, low music from street-level clubs—runs through him, through me. Aebon clears his throat, the sound rough with exhaustion, and offers me a thermocup of Vakutan brew.
I take it. The warmth seeps into my hands as I inhale the deep, nutty aroma, a comfort I’ve come to rely on in our stark world. “Thank you,” I murmur, fingers brushing his in the process. Firebrand night and yet, the connection pins us like constellations daring to realign.
He watches me take a slow sip, then nestles beside me on the step above mine. Our boots scrape old stone.
“Beautiful,” he says, gesturing toward the courthouse façade—charred, bleached, defiant. “Hell of a marker.”
“It is,” I agree, voice soft. “Shows people we don’t erase the past. We learn from it.”
He nods, close enough I can sense the cedar-scented heat of his coat against my arm. “We’re not who we were.”
I close my eyes and let the words settle. I remember the prosecutor I once was—dogged by optimism, tethered to the law. I remember the woman I’ve become—tempered, ruthless when necessity demanded, yet capable of grace.
“What are we now?” I ask, voice quiet as a confession.
His answer is deliberate. “Who we needed to become.”
That’s both revelation and reckoning. I lower my cup to my lap, mindful of its warmth.
I swallow. “That sounds like survival, not redemption.”
He shifts, arching an eyebrow I can’t see in this partial dusk. “Survival grows into more. We don’t just survive. We build.”
I stare out at the distant city lights, recalling the neon rebirth: children at clinics, safer streets, former mob clients turned entrepreneurs. He built that. I helped. But built atop ashes.
