I don’t answer right away.
I tilt my head slightly. “Do you expect this court to believe,” I ask calmly, “that people who grow up in cities don’t know what weapons sound like when they’re used near them?”
A murmur ripples through the gallery.
Otto’s smile tightens. “You’re evading the question.”
“No,” I say. “I’m contextualizing it.”
The judge raises a hand. “Answer the question directly.”
“Yes,” I say. “I identified it correctly. Alliance forensic teams confirmed residue consistent with a micro fusion block at the scene.”
Otto’s jaw flexes. “You were scared.”
“Yes.”
“You were running.”
“Yes.”
“So your perception could have been flawed.”
“No,” I say, and this time I let steel into my voice. “Fear sharpens some people. I am one of them.”
The judge makes a note.
Otto leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “Isn’t it true, Ms. Jackson, that you benefited from this situation? Fame. Attention. Protection from a… very large military escort.”
There it is.
I smile faintly.
“Isn’t it true,” I reply, “that I lost my privacy, my safety, my sense of normalcy, and almost my life?”
The prosecutor doesn’t interrupt.
Good.
Otto scoffs. “You’re exaggerating.”
I lean forward, hands still folded, posture relaxed. “You sent a shapeshifting assassin into my home disguised as a cat.”
The courtroom erupts.
The judge slams the gavel. “Order!”
Otto’s face goes purple.
“I survived,” I continue evenly, “because your assassin paused to talk about fashion.”
Laughter ripples through the gallery despite the judge’s glare.
Otto opens his mouth.
“Ms. Jackson,” the judge says, “focus on answering the questions.”
“I am,” I say. “He asked if I benefited. I’m clarifying the cost.”
