The Fall of the Golden Heir

The RHL executive boardroom gleamed in polished silver and mahogany, lined with men and women who ran cities from behind quiet desks.

At the head sat Chairman REINHARDT — Valen's father — his silver cufflinks catching the soft lights. Regal. Controlled. He had built half the country's legislative walls and crushed the rest under negotiation.

To his right, Valen REINHARDT leaned back in his seat, arms folded, unreadable as ever. His black suit fit like armor. His gaze scanned the final page of a report as the discussion dragged on.

To the left, Eliara watched silently, a pen tapping rhythmically against her notebook. Beside her sat Valen's personal assistant, quiet and alert, typing notes with disciplined precision.

"The media pulse is shifting," said one board member. "We need another broadcast from PulseFront—controlled language this time."

"We already controlled the last three," Eliara replied flatly. "Eventually, someone will notice the patterns."

Valen didn't lift his head. "That's why the pattern has to feel organic. False chaos buys us more time than polished order."

Chairman REINHARDT looked toward his son. "You disagree with the budget recommendations?"

Valen finally spoke, calm but sharp. "I disagree with pretending we don't know the Senate is already splitting behind closed doors. If we stall too long, they'll form a bloc. Then you'll have more problems than PulseFront can spin."

A beat of silence followed. The air tightened.

Then the chairman nodded slowly. "Then we strike early."

No one objected.

The meeting ended with murmurs and nods. Papers were gathered. Valen stood without another word.

 "Your car is waiting downstairs, sir," his PA said, falling into step beside him.

 "Tell him to take the day," Valen replied. "I'll drive myself."

The assistant blinked, surprised. "Sir?"

"I need air," Valen said. "And I don't need a witness for it."

He left before anyone could respond.

The black coupe sat in silence, as if it had waited just for him.

Valen entered, adjusted his seat, and started the engine with a low hum. The heat outside was dry, the kind that made the city sweat with secrets.

Langford Expressway — 3:07 PM

The highway opened ahead of him — steel rails, mirrored buildings, the occasional flash of glass and cloud.

Valen kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh.

It wasn't until he rolled up to a red light at Ridgeway Junction that something shifted in his peripheral vision.

A folder.

Cream-colored. No stamp. Slightly bent.

He frowned, leaned over, and picked it up.

The label was handwritten, in red ink:

> "Wade v. Calderon Holdings – 1995 (Sealed)"

His grip tightened.

He didn't remember this case.

But his chest knew something before his brain could process it — a spike of heat beneath his ribs. A tremor just behind his eyes.

He opened the file.

Scans. Legal forms. Depositions. A photo of a young man — wide-eyed, wearing broken glasses. Next to the image:

 Julian Wade. Filed for intellectual property theft. Case dismissed. No appeal granted. Died, two months later.

Another scan — Valen's signature.

He blinked hard.

 I didn't sign this..

Then a final note — scribbled at the corner of the last page, barely legible through red pen marks:

"You watched. Then you signed. Memory or not — truth always returns."

His pulse spiked.

He tried to breathe—then—

A sudden flash of chrome in the side mirror.

A soundless blur.

Then—

BOOM.

A massive truck slammed into the coupe's side, shattering the window. Glass exploded. Metal screamed against the median.

The car spun once. Twice.

Valen's head cracked , Blood spread across the dashboard.

The folder flew through the air, pages scattering like dying birds.

The truck never stopped.

It disappeared.

Timed. Calculated. Clean.

Moments Later — Sirens, Screams

An elderly couple screamed from the sidewalk. A cyclist dropped his phone. Cars halted.

Valen's body slumped over the wheel — still breathing, barely.

Smoke hissed from the engine.

Then — silence.

The folder lay in the middle of the road.

Open. Blood on the corner.

And beneath the wind, a page flutters, revealing a courtroom transcript.

"The witness was never supposed to speak again."

The air buzzed with panic. Sirens pierced the sky.

Paramedics sprinted toward the wreckage with practiced urgency, weaving past stalled traffic and gasping onlookers.

Valen Calder's car looked like a crushed beetle — elegant once, now mangled beyond recognition. Steam rose from the hood, curling around shattered glass like smoke signals.

Inside, Valen was unconscious. Blood streaked down his temple. One leg was trapped beneath the bent dashboard.

 "Male, early 30s. Pulse weak. Head trauma."

 "He's still breathing. Pupils unequal."

One medic climbed in carefully from the side, cutting the seatbelt with a hiss of the blade.

 "Get the spine brace ready. We need him stabilized before we pull."

Outside, the other medic checked Valen's coat and trouser pocket — feeling for ID, wallet, anything.

No wallet.

But inside the breast pocket of his jacket… a phone buzzed faintly.

Incoming Call: RHL Legal Wing – Assistant Line

The medic swiped. "Emergency response. The owner of this phone has been in an accident."

Silence. Then a male voice, shaken:

 "What? Who?"

"Do you know the name Valen Calder?"

The line was quiet for a moment.

 "Yes. Yes, I'm his assistant."

Head injury. We're transporting him to Langford Medical Central now."

"Oh my God…"

The medic didn't wait for emotion.

"Contact next of kin. We're six minutes out."

Inside the Ambulance 

Valen's body was strapped to a gurney, oxygen mask fitted, wires trailing from his chest. Blood matted the side of his head. His eyes fluttered, but didn't open.

The case file — "Wade v. Calderon Holdings – 2019" — sat folded beside the stretcher in a sealed evidence pouch. One of the medics had picked it up out of curiosity.

 "Weird folder to be carrying," the younger medic muttered.

 "Doesn't matter. Bag it. Chain of custody," the older one said, checking the monitor. "Let's just get him there alive."

The assistant's hand trembled as he ended the call.

His voice cracked as she turned to Eliara, who was still seated with a case file open in front of her.

"Ma'am... it's Valen."

Eliara looked up slowly.

 "What about him?"

 "There was a crash. They said it's bad. Head trauma."

For the first time in weeks, Eliara's fingers froze. Her eyes narrowed, not in fear — but calculation.

 "Who called it in?"

"The ambulance team. His phone was still on him."

Eliara stood slowly, her face unreadable. "And his father?"

"He's not answering. I already dialed twice."

Eliara picked up her tablet, snapped it shut, and said only:

"Get the car."

 Langford Medical Central – Emergency Wing

Time: 3:40 PM

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and time moving too fast.

Valen's PA walked alongside Eliara, the soft thud of their shoes echoing through the corridor. He held his phone tightly in one hand, knuckles pale, his breath short.

They reached the ER desk.

 "Valen REINHARDT. He was brought in from a highway collision," Eliara said, calm but direct.

The nurse typed something, eyes scanning the screen.

"Yes. He's in Trauma Room 4. Still unconscious. No internal bleeding, but his head injury's serious."

Eliara nodded once. "Any visitors?"

 "Not yet. They just stabilized him."

As they approached the trauma wing doors, the PA slowed.

 "I… I need to call the chairman ."

Eliara stopped beside him. "Do it now. And be ready."

Behind a wall of glass and gold trim, Chairman Jim REINHARDT sat at his desk — stoic, unmoved, reading through printed legislative drafts with a cold eye.

The phone vibrated.

He didn't flinch. Just answered with a low:

 "Yes."

 "Sir, it's me. Mr. Valen's been in a crash. A truck hit him. He's at Langford Medical—"

A beat of silence.

Unconscious. Critical The doctors—"

Jim stood slowly.

His eyes weren't panicked.

They were calculating.

He moved to the window and stared at the city below, voice lowered:

"Find out who was behind the wheel of that truck."

 "Sir?"

"It wasn't random," Jim said. "Not for Valen. Not today."

He turned back toward his desk.

 "And make sure no one touches whatever was in that car."

 "Yes, sir."

Jim ended the call without goodbye.

Langford Medical Central – Emergency Wing

The double doors slammed open.

Valen's stretcher wheeled through like a bullet — four nurses, two trauma surgeons, and the attending physician barking orders fast.

"Blunt head trauma, subdural bleeding suspected!"

"BP is dropping — start fluids now!"

"We need to intubate — he's unresponsive!"

The light above the OR theatre glowed red as they entered.

From behind the glass, Chairman Jim watched. Silent. Still.

Inside the OR, the team worked fast.

They shaved Valen's temple, prepped the skull, and drilled in — searching for bleeding, for pressure, for life that was trying to escape.

2 hours later…..

The lead surgeon stepped into the hallway, still wearing her cap and gloves. Her eyes met Dr. Grace's, then turned to Chairman Jim.

"We stopped the internal bleeding. We stabilized him. But…"

She exhaled slowly.

 "He's in a coma. Deep. His brain isn't responding to external stimuli yet."

Jim's jaw clenched. "Will he wake up?"

 "We don't know. It could be hours. Days. Or longer."

"We'll keep him monitored… but right now, Chairman—your son is between worlds."

A heavy silence fell in the hallway.

And for the first time that day…

Jim looked like a man who didn't have an answer.

The TV in the RHL Legal lounge buzzed low in the background — mostly ignored as staff sorted files and sipped bitter coffee.

Aria limped slightly as she stepped in, a thin bandage visible beneath the hem of her skirt. She held a mug of warm tea in one hand, a folder in the other. Her thoughts were still caught between court case… and the Wade file she couldn't stop rereading.

Felix was mid-argument with Uche over who drank the last of the almond milk when the news anchor's voice rose an octave.

 "—Breaking update out of Langford Expressway. Sources confirm that legal executive Valen Calder was involved in a high-speed highway collision this afternoon. Reports indicate he was driving alone."

Aria froze.

The room quieted instantly.

The anchor continued:

"The vehicle was struck by an eighteen-wheeler under suspicious circumstances. Emergency services responded within minutes. Mr. Valen was transported to Langford Medical Central where he remains in critical condition."

On screen, grainy footage played: Valen's black car crushed sideways. Paramedics pulling a stretcher. A man's bloodied arm limp over the edge.

 "...Investigators have not confirmed if the incident was targeted. No license plate was recovered from the truck, which reportedly fled the scene…"

Aria's heart thudded. Her grip tightened on the mug. The bandage on her leg pulsed faintly — like her body remembered something her mind hadn't caught up to yet.

 Why do I feel this so deeply?

Felix muttered under his breath, "Damn. You don't get hit like that for free."

Mr. Ebe leaned forward, face serious for once. "And he was just in the boardroom this morning…"

Uche nodded, unusually quiet.

On screen, the footage switched to Chairman Jim REINHARDT stepping out of a government vehicle. Flanked by aides, his face was storm-dark. He didn't speak to reporters. Just walked.

Aria didn't realize her fingers were trembling until she nearly spilled her drink.

Someone whispered near the door:

"They're calling it an accident… but I don't think it was."

Langford Medical Central – Executive Emergency Wing

The double doors burst open like they feared her.

Claudia REINHARDT didn't walk into the hospital — she arrived, like a verdict.

Dressed in a storm-gray silk coat that flowed like water and ash, her diamond earrings caught every flicker of light. A silence swept through the emergency wing, louder than any alarm.

Doctors moved. Guards stood straighter. Even the head nurse lowered her eyes. Everyone knew her name. And worse — her temper.

At the far end, Chairman Jim REINHARDT stood behind the ICU glass.

When his eyes met hers, his spine straightened instinctively. For the first time since the crash, he braced himself — not for grief…

…but for his wife.

"He's not dead," he said before she could speak.

But she did.

"You let him drive alone."

Her voice could slice steel. It wasn't a question — it was a prosecution.

 "Claudia—"

 "Answer me!" she barked.

Every nurse and aide in the hallway flinched.

"My son is bleeding under your empire, and you're standing here like a man reviewing stock damage?!"

She marched past the glass — past the sterile white — and jabbed her manicured finger at his chest.

"You move pawns. You play kings. But Valen isn't one of your damn pieces."

He caught her wrist, gently. "You think I wanted this?"

"No," she snapped, snatching it back. "But your enemies couldn't reach you. So they reached him."

Jim lowered his gaze for half a breath.

Claudia turned toward the ICU window. Valen lay unconscious, a pale bruise of a man beneath blinking monitors.

 "He's not built for this war, Jim," she whispered, shaking.

"He has your blood but none of your armor."

"He's strong," Jim said.

 "No, I am strong," she hissed. "He's... human."

She pressed her palm to the glass like she could reach through it.

"And if he doesn't wake up—"

Her voice cracked.

"—you'll pray he never does. Because if he learns what you've done…"

She turned, voice low as thunder.

 "He won't forgive you. But I? I'll destroy you."

And for the second time that day…

Jim Calder said nothing.

Ebone Campaign Headquarters – Private Lounge

The flat-screen TV in the corner of the room flickered from stock reports to breaking news.

"This just in—Valen REINHARDT, legal executive and heir to the Calder business empire, has been hospitalized after a severe car crash on Langford Expressway. Sources confirm he's in critical condition—"

The remote clicked softly.

Silence.

Risa Ebone sat in a curved leather chair, legs crossed, perfectly still.

Her fingers tapped once against the armrest. Not from shock. But timing.

 "How long before the vultures circle?" she asked.

Her chief of staff looked up from his tablet.

"Ma'am?"

 "They'll start scrambling in RHL. Jim will pretend he's in control. But without his son, the wolves will bite deeper."

Her gaze lingered on the screen, now looping CCTV footage of the accident aftermath — fire crews, flashing lights, a shattered vehicle.

Risa Ebone lifted her wine glass without looking up.

Her campaign director shifted awkwardly across from her. "Should we release a statement, ma'am?"

Risa smiled faintly. Not out of shock. Not even relief.

Something colder.

"Draft a press response," she said.

"Sympathy. Shock. Say we're praying for him."

A beat.

 "But don't post it."

The aide blinked. "Ma'am?"

"Let the others post theirs first. I don't follow waves. I pull tides."

"I was preparing for war," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

"But it seems heaven picked up a sword first."

Risa turned back to the muted TV.

Valen's face was still on the screen — pale, bloodied, unconscious. She stared at it like it was a prophecy fulfilled.

 "The golden boy took a fall," she murmured.

"Let's see which secrets fall with him."

Senator Gregory Dalton sat across from a broad-shouldered man in a powder-blue suit: Victor Levant, a foreign tech magnate from Eastern Europe, known for investing where regimes were unstable — and payoffs inevitable.

 "Langford," Victor said, sipping his whiskey, "is like your tea — bitter, complicated, but… strangely comforting."

Dalton smiled, polite but tight.

"Comfort comes with the right partners. You bring us the telecom infrastructure, we open the eastern corridor."

Victor raised an eyebrow. "And what of regulatory resistance?"

"Regulations are paper. We're the pen."

The two men chuckled.

Victor leaned back, pleased. "Then, Senator… we are in agreement?"

Before Dalton could reply, his PA slipped in quietly, holding a tablet, expression strained.

 "Sir… apologies. Something urgent."

Dalton frowned. "Now?"

 "It's Valen Calder. He was in a crash. RHL confirmed. ICU. Possibly a coma."

The room shifted.

Dalton took the tablet. The footage played silently — red lights, twisted metal, Valen's name in bold under a breaking banner.

His hand tightened around the screen.

 "What the hell happened…"

Victor watched him closely. "Is this… a problem for our plans?"

Dalton didn't answer right away. His voice, when it came, was low and clipped.

"Not yet. But if Calder falls, half the structure with him wobbles."

He stood slowly, passing the tablet back to his PA.

 "Get me Jim Calder. Privately. No intermediaries."

The PA nodded and left quickly.

Victor finished his drink, tapping a finger on the rim of the glass.

"Interesting times, Senator."

Dalton turned, fixing the foreign investor with a heavy stare.

"Langford doesn't survive interesting. It survives control."

The gym echoed with the sound of fists slamming into leather. Muffled hip-hop trembled through the floorboards, the kind of beat that dared your rage to dance.

Aria Sinclair slammed her gloves into the bag again.

 Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Her breath was tight. Focused. Or trying to be.

Across the gym, Jet wiped sweat from his brow, watching her over the ropes. He'd seen her like this before — when cases got too messy, or memories got too loud.

She didn't flinch when he called out, "You hitting the bag or the past?"

Aria threw one more strike before yanking off her gloves and letting them drop to the bench beside her. "Bit of both."

Jet tossed her a water bottle. She caught it, drank, and stared at the floor.

 "There was a name," she said after a pause. "On that envelope I saw… the day of the accident."

Jet walked over slowly, arms folded.

 "What name?"

She looked up at him. "Wade."

Jet froze for just a second — not enough to notice unless you were really looking. But Aria missed it, eyes distant now.

 "It felt familiar," she added. "Not just legally. Personally. Like it belonged to something I lost."

Jet didn't answer immediately. He reached for a towel, nodding like he barely heard her.

 "Wade's just an old case," he said finally. "One of the names people forget — especially in places like this."

Aria narrowed her eyes. "You know something, don't you?"

"I know it's Saturday," Jet replied, smirking faintly. "And I know this place doesn't give answers — just bruises."

She didn't laugh. She stared at the water bottle in her hand.

"I've seen that handwriting before, Jet. I just don't know where."

Jet stepped away, back into shadow, but under his breath he muttered:

 "Because you saw it as a child… on your father's file."

Aria didn't hear him.

She turned back to the bag, jaw set. Somewhere deep in her gut, something had shifted. The past wasn't done with her yet.

And Jet… Jet wasn't sure how long he could keep shielding her from it.

Justice Nathaniel sat in silence, the case file spread before him like a crime scene. Names, timestamps, photos. Blood without stains.

He ran his fingers down the last page.

A young female prosecutor. Two weeks ago. Declared dead by accident. Wrong.

The door opened.

Barrister Miles Bennett stepped in, his expression tight.

> "He's still in town. We confirmed he flew in this morning. Private car. Private hotel. Under a false name, but our tracker flagged him at the border."

Justice Nathaniel didn't look up.

 "Do we have enough?"

 "Yes, sir. The file she risked her life to build — we recovered most of it. It was encrypted in her home system. We decrypted it last night."

 "And the connection?"

 "Clear. He silenced her to protect a chain of bribery between two RHL contractors and one DALCOM liaison."

Nathaniel folded the page. Slowly.

He picked up his pen, wrote four precise strokes on the arrest warrant, then sealed it with the stamp.

 "Deliver it personally," he said. "No noise. No leaks. Let him feel forgotten until the cuffs close.

Miles bowed slightly, then turned to leave.

"And Bennett," Nathaniel added.

The young man paused.

"Let her name be spoken in the warrant. Out loud."

Miles nodded.

 "Yes, sir."

You're under arrest," the officer said, snapping the cuffs with practiced ease. "For the murder of Prosecutor Jareth Tayo. And for conspiracy to obstruct justice in three federal inquiries."

 Senator Draxford turned, seething. "This is insanity! You think you can touch me?"

The officer handed him the signed warrant.

"Justice Nathaniel thinks so. That's enough."

As the van doors slammed shut, the alley went silent again.

Back at his residence, Justice Nathaniel exhaled and turned off the desk lamp.

"He wasn't forgotten."

Jim stood at the table, arms crossed. His face was pale, his jaw tight. Next to him, Eliara leaned forward, hands gloved, examining the evidence bag.

Inside it lay a sealed envelope, slightly crumpled, one corner bloodied from the crash. A sticker on the bag read:

 "Recovered from Valens' vehicle — Priority Clearance Level 5."

Jim spoke first, voice low and sharp.

 "I thought this was buried."

Eliara didn't look at him. "Apparently not deep enough."

She unzipped the bag slowly, lifted the envelope with two fingers, and slid out the folded document. For a moment, the only sound was the careful turning of pages.

Then Eliara froze.

"This isn't just any document," she whispered.

Jim moved closer.

The page bore names — familiar ones. Internal client logs, hidden payout records, suppressed cases. And one signature at the bottom…

Jim's eyes widened.

"That's… my signature."

Eliara looked up at him. "From twelve years ago."

"This was never supposed to surface," Jim said, a hint of panic now laced in his voice. "How the hell did it end up in his car?"

The room wasn't just quiet — it was secured.

Multiple monitors lined the walls, each one looping through feeds from parking lots, corridors, offices. The RHL security control room was a fortress of digital eyes.

Jim and Eliara stood behind a seated technician, who typed rapidly into the system.

"We pulled footage from the exact window Valen left the building," Eliara said. "Replay it."

The technician nodded.

The feed rolled: Valen exiting the lobby. Heading toward the parking structure. Unlocking the car.

Then—static. The footage cut out.

 [ FILE ERROR – 08:11:09 AM TO 08:12:42 AM – CORRUPTED SEGMENT DETECTED ]

Jim frowned. "That's not system failure. That's a clean wipe."

The tech shook his head. "Even our internal scrub logs are blank. Whoever did this had full admin access."

Eliara's gaze darkened. "Meaning… someone inside."

"Someone who knew exactly what they were looking for," Jim added grimly.

He stepped back as the tech returned the sealed envelope recovered from the crash. It now sat in an evidence tray.

Jim stared at it. Then at the blank screen.

"This wasn't just an accident," he muttered. "It was a message."

The security room still hummed with static tension.

Jim stood at the screen, arms folded tightly, while Eliara scrolled through code logs, trying to trace the corruption that wiped Valen's footage. The technician said nothing — he could feel the pressure from every breath they took.

Then—

 Knock. Knock.

The door opened briskly.

Valen's PA, red-faced and panting, stepped inside, holding a buzzing phone and a trembling tablet.

"Ma'am—Sir—sorry to interrupt, but you need to see this. Now."

Jim turned sharply. "What is it?"

The PA handed Eliara the tablet.

"Live stream from Langford Courtroom. Senator Draxford… he's just been arrested. Official charge: the murder of a federal prosecutor."

Eliara froze.

 "Draxford?"

The PA nodded. "And sir… he was on our books. RHL listed him under 'priority discretion contracts.' He was in the system until six months ago."

A sharp silence dropped into the room.

Jim stepped forward, voice taut.

 "Who's leaking these things now?"

The PA blinked. "The arrest video is public. Anonymous drop. And now it's trending."

He turned the tablet slightly. The footage played: a high-profile senator being cuffed, mid-protest, dragged into a van.

Jim swore under his breath.

Eliara didn't flinch. Her eyes moved from the screen… to the security footage… then back to the envelope still resting in the evidence tray.

"Two major fires," she said flatly. "And both were lit from inside this chamber."

Jim looked at her. Really looked.

 "This thing's unraveling."

 "No," Eliara said, straightening. "It's exposing itself."

The footage looped in the background — Senator Draxford being hauled into the van, his eyes wide with disbelief, his tie askew, his voice hoarse as he shouted protests that no one cared to hear anymore.

Jim's jaw clenched.

 "Do we know who approved his client file?"

Eliara turned slowly. "You did."

Jim didn't deny it. He simply looked at the flickering timestamp again — the moment Valen's car feed was scrubbed.

His voice dropped.

 "Someone wants to end us before we see it coming."

Valen's PA hovered. "There's more."

Jim turned. "More?"

The PA swallowed.

 "Social media's gone wild. #DraxfordFiles is trending. And… some are linking it to Valen's accident."

That landed like a gut punch.

Eliara's eyes narrowed. "They're making connections?"

The PA nodded. "Yes. A few conspiracy threads online say maybe Valen found something. That the crash wasn't just a crash."

Jim slammed a fist into the console.

"That boy shouldn't have been dragged into this."

The room fell silent — the weight of unraveling secrecy closing in on them.

Eliara crossed her arms.

"It's no longer about secrecy. It's about survival."

She looked back at the evidence tray.

 "And we don't have much time."

The room buzzed, not with debate — but with dread.

Three senior members of the RHL Chamber sat around the glass conference table, screens open in front of them. A muted television replayed the footage of Senator Draxford being arrested, handcuffed, and shoved into a federal van.

 "We're being targeted," one snapped, slamming his tablet on the table.

> "Don't be dramatic," said another, arms folded. "But yes — this isn't a coincidence. Not when Valen's accident happened hours before this arrest."

A third, the oldest of the three — calm but pale — adjusted his cufflinks.

"And Draxford was still in our books last quarter."

The air tightened.

"The boy… would have known. Or seen something."

Silence.

 "What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing. Yet. But the optics are bad. Our most promising director in the ICU, and one of our clients on national TV in chains."

"We need to call an emergency session."

"We need to find out who else is exposed."

They all looked at the central screen — where the reporter's voice carried faintly:

 "The arrest follows recent leaks connecting powerful figures to the late Prosecutor Tayo's murder… and what appears to be a deep attempt to silence the truth."

One of them reached for his phone.

 "I'm calling Eliara. We need to clean this now."

Aria leaned over the bench, wiping sweat from her forehead with a towel. Her gloves hung loose from her wrists, her breathing slowing. The scent of sweat and chalk filled the room — and faint hip-hop pulsed through the speaker system.

Jet stood by the water cooler, sipping slowly, watching her from the corner of his eye.

Her phone buzzed.

She picked it up absentmindedly… and then paused.

The headline glowed across her screen:

 "BREAKING: SENATOR DRAXFORD ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF FEDERAL PROSECUTOR."

Her breath caught slightly — not from the boxing.

Across the room, Jet checked his own phone.

"You saw it too?" he asked, voice low.

She nodded. "Yeah."

"RHL connection?"

"Seems like it," she said.

They stood there for a moment — quiet.

Then Jet tossed her a cold bottle of water.

 "Looks like justice got out of bed."

Aria gave a half-smile. "Let's see if it stays awake."

They didn't talk more about it.

But Jet's eyes lingered on the headline — on the name Draxford — and the chill that settled quietly between them.

Behind a wide glass partition, Valen lay unconscious, tubes in his nose, monitors blinking steadily beside him. His face, once sharp and proud, was now marred by bruises — a violet welt above his brow, dried blood crusting at the edge of his hairline.

A red light on the monitor spiked suddenly.

"BP drop," a nurse called.

"Pulse irregular — get Dr. Grace now!"

A team in blue scrubs rushed in, gloves snapping on, the room filling with clipped commands.

Outside the glass, Jim stood frozen — fists clenched, jaw locked.

"Stabilize him," he said to no one in particular.

Inside, the lead doctor worked fast, adjusting oxygen levels and increasing IV pressure. After a long few seconds — beep… beep… — the monitors calmed again.

"He's stable… for now," the doctor said, breathless.

Jim exhaled — not relief, just permission to keep standing.

Then came the door.

Click. He turned.

She stepped in like cold marble — sleek heels, dark satin dress, pearl necklace tight against her throat.

"Claudia ," Jim muttered.

Valen's mother.

She didn't speak at first. Her eyes fell on the boy through the glass. They didn't blink.

 "He looks like you when you buried your father," she finally said.

Jim sighed. "Not now."

"Why not? We're always late with truth in this family."

A beat passed between them. Sharp. Personal.

 "You saw the file," she added. "So did I. Why was that document in his car, Jim?"

"I don't know."

 "You're lying."

He turned toward her fully. "I buried that case. We both did."

Claudia folded her arms. "Then why is it back?"

Silence.

Behind them, the surgeon approached.

 "He's in a medically-induced coma now. We've done all we can. His brain may need… time."

Jim nodded, tight.

Claudia whispered, "What if he remembers?"

The doctor glanced between them. "Remembers what?"

Neither answered.

They stood, side by side, staring into the glass as Valen's chest rose and fell. Machines hummed. Monitors blinked. Time slowed.

"He has your stubbornness," Mariel said finally.

 "He has your silence," Jim replied.

And for a long moment — just one — they looked not like powerhouses or enemies… but like parents.

The parents of a boy who was never meant to know the truth.