Alex:
The courthouse smells like wet stone and old dust, the kind of scent that seeps into your skin and lingers long after you leave. I keep my chin high as the bailiff leads me toward the defense table, heels clicking on the polished floor like small gunshots. Cameras flash behind the wooden doors as they swing shut. The sound is a swarm—hungry, relentless.
I don’t look back.
Maris is already seated, a sleek shadow in black, eyes sharp enough to cut. She doesn’t rise when I arrive; she doesn’t need to. Her presence fills the space like a blade waiting to strike. I slide into the chair beside her, every muscle wound tight, and she offers a single nod. No smile, no comfort. Just the quiet assurance that she is exactly where she belongs—at my side, ready to draw blood with words.
Across
