The defense attorney jumps in, flustered. “No further questions at this time.”
Good choice.
The prosecutor calls the next witness.
Tugun.
He takes the stand like he’s stepping onto a runway.
I don’t know how he does it, but the blazer he’s wearing is… aggressive. Not in color—clean lines, deep sapphire—but in presence. The fabric catches the light in a way that makes the judge physically flinch when he moves.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“State your name,” the judge says carefully.
“Tugun,” he replies. “Designer.”
A pause.
“…Formerly,” he adds.
The prosecutor clears her throat. “Mr. Tugun, do you acknowledge that you were contracted by the Nine to assassinate Ms. Jackson?”
“Yes.”
Gasps. Whispers. Otto stares at him like he’s been personally betrayed.
“And did you attempt to carry out that contract?”
“Yes.”
“And did you fail?”
Tugun considers this. “I would say I… pivoted.”
Laughter again.
The judge sighs. “Mr. Tugun, this is a court of law.”
“And fashion,” Tugun says solemnly, “is not a crime.”
The gallery loses it.
Otto slams a hand on the bench. “This is a farce!”
The judge bangs the gavel again. “One more outburst and you will be removed.”
Tugun finishes his testimony calmly. He admits everything. He corroborates timelines. He hands over design schematicsandencrypted data caches like party favors.
When he steps down, he catches the edge of the shield and gives me the smallest nod.
I return it.
Then it’s my turn again.
Final statement.
I stand.
