Judge Halvorsen adjusted their robes and addressed the room.
"Ms. Vane, your next witness?"
Vane stood with a cool, deliberate nod. "The prosecution calls Raymond Dobbins."
A wiry man in a faded windbreaker and jeans stepped forward, every bit the picture of "cash only" side-hustles. His posture slouched, his hands fidgeted as he took the oath, like someone who'd lied under it before.
He took the stand and squinted under the courtroom lights. Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on NoᴠᴇFɪre.nᴇt
Vane approached. "Mr. Dobbins, please state your occupation."
"I own and operate East End Mini-Stash. Storage lockers, 24-hour access."
"Were you present when officers from GCPD came to inspect one of your units earlier this year?"
"Yeah. They said they had info about a suspicious locker. Gave me the number. I opened it up."
"You opened it for them voluntarily?"
"Sure. It's my property. I let people rent the space, but if something illegal's going on, I figure I'd rather cooperate."
"And what did you find inside?"
"A big black duffel bag. Unzipped it and—bam cash. Bricks of it. Real clean too. Straps still said Gotham Bank on 'em."
The jury murmured faintly.
Vane smiled. "And do you recall who rented that unit?"
Dobbins scratched the back of his neck. "Name on the order was… 'Quentin.' Just that. No last name. Paid cash enough for three months of storage."
"Did you happen to see the man who rented it?"
"Yeah. Once. Came in to drop off the bag himself. Hoodie. Quiet. But I remember him. Tall. Sharp jaw. Kinda looked guy."
He gestured loosely toward Kieran at the defense table.
"And where you aware that a bank was robbed just prior to the man you saw looking like Kieran Everleigh buy the storage unit?"
"Yeah that's what made up my mind to let em get a look at the unit."
"Thank you, Mr. Dobbins." Vane turned with finality. "No further questions."
Judge Halvorsen glanced to the defense. "Mr. Grey?"
Adrian Grey stood smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks as he approached the witness stand.
"Mr. Dobbins… how long have you been in business?"
"And how often do you allow police to open customers' lockers without a warrant?"
Dobbins hesitated. "Only if I got reason."
"And in this case… did they show you a warrant?"
"No. But they said they got a tip. I figured if something illegal was in there, I didn't want it traced back to me."
Adrian nodded, turning to face the jury. "So just to recap: no warrant. No subpoena. No court order. Just a… tip."
"Did they ever tell you who gave this tip?"
"Did you verify it yourself?"
"Didn't have to. The cash was right there."
"Of course." Adrian tilted his head. "Now, the name on the rental form was 'Quentin,' correct?"
"Not Kieran Everleigh?"
"So you're telling this jury, under oath, that a man gave you a single first name, no ID, no last name, paid in cash and you believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was my client?"
Dobbins looked flustered. "Well… yeah. Looks like him."
Adrian stepped forward, voice rising just slightly. "You're sure? Based on one brief meeting with a man in a hoodie, months ago?"
"I don't forget faces!"
"Oh, really?" Adrian pulled a sheet from his folder and held it up. "Then maybe you remember this man too." He showed a photo—blurry surveillance footage from the facility's parking lot. Grainy and dim. Hood up. Head turned. Barely a silhouette.
"You testified that this is the man you saw?"
Adrian dropped the photo onto the table beside him with a dry laugh. "Mr. Dobbins, this image could be anyone. Tall man in a hoodie? That describes half of Gotham."
Objection was rising in Vane's throat, but Adrian plowed ahead.
"And even if it was my client, you expect us to believe he under an alias with no last name, no ID, no paper trail rented a locker that just so happened to hold stolen money from a bank robbery… and then walked away, leaving it there for months?"
Dobbins didn't answer.
Adrian stared him down. "You didn't see him clearly. You had no legal authority to let the police in. You didn't ask questions. You didn't require ID. You didn't file a report. You just let them in, opened a locker, and now you're here asking this jury to believe you were a reliable witness to a man who, legally speaking, doesn't even exist?"
Adrian glanced at the judge. "No further questions."
The metal door slammed shut behind him with a low clang. Nolan moved quietly to the cot bolted into the wall and sat. The courtroom lights still danced behind his eyelids, but it was a different kind of theater now—one he was beginning to enjoy.
He laid back, arms folded beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling through dim, flickering light.
"I think we're gonna win."
The thought echoed like a whisper in the quiet, but it wasn't alone.
"Yeah," Kieran answered lazily from somewhere inside, "your lawyer's not half-bad. Adrian's sharp. But let's be real—you're not winning because of him."
A grin tugged at the corner of Nolan's mouth.
"You're winning because you don't give a shit. Because the people on the outside are pulling strings tighter than anyone realizes."
Then Quentin chimed in, smug as ever. "Trained them well."
"Oh, shut up," Kieran snapped. "You wore nice suits and played phantom boss. I did most of the hard work. I built the contacts, I smoothed the fronts, I kept our name clean."
Quentin chuckled. "You kept our name clean? Bro, you used my name. I am the name."
"Your name's a liability. You're like a raccoon in a crime thriller. I had to clean up half your messes before we ever bought that hotel."
Quentin scoffed. "I'm the one who handled the Streets. You think they respect your little wine glass business voice? I'm the reason they follow."
Kieran growled, "You're the reason they almost burned it all down once. Remember that? You popped off, threatened a cop, and I had to fix it with a donation and three favors."
"You literally just made that up! Nothing like that even remotely happened! Nolan back me up here!" Quentin shouted
Nolan let their bickering wash over him like a familiar lullaby. Outside the reinforced glass, the hallway was still. The hum of the building was the only real sound.
And deep beneath it all, he smiled.
They were loud, fractured, and half-insane… but they were winning. Together. In their own broken way.
"Let me know when you two are done measuring egos," Nolan muttered aloud to no one. "I'm trying to get some sleep before the next van ride."
Nolan let their bickering fade into the background. He stretched out fully on the cot, muscles loose, the tension of the courtroom still evaporating off him like steam. For the first time in a while, the cell didn't feel like a cage. It felt… earned.
He closed his eyes, lips curling into a faint smile.
Then the world changed.
A screaming siren shattered the stillness, piercing through the silence like a blade. Nolan's eyes snapped open. The red emergency lights above flickered violently to life, casting the hallway outside in an alternating wash of crimson and shadow.
WHRRRRT—WHRRRRT—WHRRRRT—
All at once, heavy metallic clunks echoed in sequence one cell door after another unlocking, disengaging with bone-deep thuds.
Then came the shouts.
Dozens of them. Chaotic, ragged, angry. From down the hall, inmates howled and barked in disbelief and glee, like wolves scenting a kill. Someone screamed. Another bellowed, "WE'RE OUT!"
Nolan sat up sharply. Footsteps thundered past his cell rapid, violent.
The explosion shook the wall behind him, dust drifting from the ceiling in a soft, deadly rain.