The courthouse doors swung open, and the noise hit me like a tidal wave.
Reporters surged forward, cameras flashing like bursts of lightning, voices colliding in a chaotic storm of questions. A sea of bodies, all desperate for a statement, for a soundbite that could twist the trial's narrative before the next day even began.
"The Masked Syndicate dodged a major accusation today—any comments?"
"Mr. Leviathan, do you believe your clients are truly innocent?"
"Many claim this case proves your organization is dangerous—how do you respond?"
I didn't flinch. I didn't slow. I ignored them all.
I had won today. But tomorrow would be an entirely different battlefield.
Sienna and Alexis moved ahead of me, their every step shadowed by a flurry of questions. Unlike me, they weren't ignored—reporters hounded them relentlessly, shoving microphones close, cameras flashing as they tried to capture even the smallest reaction.
"Mr. Fox, how do you respond to the accusations against you?"
"Mr. Angel, do you regret your actions?"
"Do the Masked Syndicate consider themselves above the law?"
Sienna kept her head down, her firefighter gear making her presence all the more imposing as she pushed through the crowd. Alexis, wrapped in the flowing white of Mr. Angel, moved with a strange grace, unfazed by the voices surrounding her. Neither spoke. Neither reacted.
Camille, still masked as Mr. Dust, stuck closer to my side, her usual playfulness absent. Silent. Unreadable. I could feel the weight in her stance, the tension in the way she moved. No matter how detached she pretended to be, I knew—facing her brother in court had rattled something in her. Despite everything, some part of her still cared.
Damian had vanished back into the courthouse, but his presence lingered like a shadow in my mind. His last words echoed in my head, each syllable laced with venom.
Evelyn was waiting when we arrived.
The safehouse was a small, unassuming office space in a quiet district. One of Evelyn's personal locations. No security cameras, no listening devices. Just us.
The moment the door closed behind me, Evelyn exhaled.
"That was too close," she muttered, placing a tablet down on the table. A live news broadcast was already playing—footage of the trial, slowed down and analyzed by the media like vultures picking apart a corpse.
Sienna sat down, rubbing her temples. "I thought the judge was going to reject the motion."
"He almost did," Evelyn said, crossing her arms. "Damian set up that argument too well. You only got through because you flipped it back on him."
I leaned against the table, arms crossed. "And he won't let that happen again."
Evelyn nodded. "Tomorrow, he's going to hit harder. He'll either bring in a witness that's undeniable or try to turn public perception completely against you."
Alexis groaned, flopping into a chair. "So what do we do? Pray?"
I glanced at Camille. "We prepare."
She hummed. "We need to know what witnesses he's bringing."
"Impossible to predict," Evelyn said. "He has government backing. They can pull people from anywhere."
"Then we go through the possibilities." I tapped my fingers against the table, forcing my thoughts to settle. "What's his next move? If he can't use imposters, he needs something that directly ties us to crime."
Sienna looked grim. "Then would he go for a victim perhaps? Someone who suffered because of us?"
We had saved people and did our job, but not everyone liked how we operated. Some had been caught in the crossfire of the event quests and they likely saw us as a scapegoat for their rage.
Evelyn met my gaze. "We need a strategy before tomorrow. Otherwise, you won't just lose the trial. You'll lose the public."
Then her phone vibrated.
While the others ran through possible scenarios, Evelyn stepped into the next room, answering a call on her secure line.
I could only hear snippets.
"Yes, I saw the shift in the trial."
"...No, this wasn't his doing. This was a setup from higher up."
"Yes. I understand what that means."
Her voice was calm, precise. But something about the conversation made my instincts itch.
Then her tone changed.
"Is that your official stance?" A pause. "...I see. Then we move forward as planned."
There was another moment of silence. Then:
"You always were a better player than them."
When she walked back in, her expression was unreadable.
She looked at me. "Just... confirmation that this trial is only one piece of something bigger."
A bad feeling settled in my chest.
Evelyn wasn't rattled often.
That night, the media exploded.
Every news outlet debated the trial, spinning it in different directions. Some called me a genius lawyer, others called me a manipulative fraud.
It showed a past rescue by Mr. Fox. But it had been edited—twisted to make it look like he had abandoned civilians in danger. The reality had been different, but the public didn't care about nuance.
The comment sections were filled with doubt, while others were defending us.
"The Syndicate always claimed to be heroes, but look at this."
"This trial proves they've been lying for years."
"I used to support them, but now I'm not sure."
"I've seen Mr. Fox, I doubt he would do this. He seemed to nice."
Sienna tensed when she saw the broadcast. "They're turning people against us."
"They were always going to do this," Camille said. "We just have to make sure we win before the narrative is set in stone."
But that wasn't what concerned me.
Someone had dug up that specific footage.
Someone was deliberately feeding the media this story.
Someone with real power wanted us gone.
It was late. The others had gone to rest, but I stayed awake, pouring over files, replaying the case over and over in my head.
I hesitated, then answered.
A familiar voice filled the line.
A chill ran down my spine.
The director of the Mars mission. The man who had sent me to die.
I didn't say anything.
Mark's tone was smooth, unbothered. Almost amused.
"I hope you're excited for tomorrow."
My grip tightened around the phone. "I didn't know you were a fan of courtroom drama."
"Oh, I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"After all... we'll be seeing each other."
I stared at the phone.
A slow, sharp dread settled in my chest.