Echoes of the Ashes

Jim REINHARDT sat in near- stillness, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His sharp gray suit was rumpled in the sleeves. He hadn't touched the water on the side table. Beyond the glass, his son lay unconscious, hooked to quiet machines that beeped softly like a countdown no one had asked for.

Then came a knock.

The door opened gently, and a nurse poked her head in. "Sir… Senator Dalton is here to see you."

Jim didn't look up. "Send him in."

The door opened fully this time. Senator Gregory Dalton stepped inside — crisp as ever in his tailored black coat, eyes shadowed with concern. He moved without hesitation and crossed the lounge in slow strides.

He stopped only when he stood in front of Jim.

"No father deserves this," Dalton said, quietly.

Jim finally looked up. For a flicker, his face softened. The pain was there — dull, tired, buried behind too many layers of control. He gave a small nod.

"Thanks for coming."

Dalton lowered himself into the chair beside him. "I heard it happened right after a board session. What was he doing driving alone?"

Jim exhaled. "He insisted. Said he needed air. He never drives himself."

"Was it random?"

Jim didn't answer immediately.

"His driver's alibi checks out," he said finally. "And the footage from our building's lot is... gone."

Dalton's brows furrowed. "Gone how?"

"Wiped. Clean. Security says the system glitched."

"Of course it did," Dalton muttered, eyes narrowing.

There was a silence. Then Dalton asked it straight.

"You think someone wanted to hurt him?"

Jim turned his head slowly.

"I think someone already did."

Just then, the soft click of heels approached outside the hallway.

A moment later, the door creaked open again — and Risa Ebone entered.

She was dressed in solemn elegance: black blazer, pale gray silk blouse, heels that didn't dare echo too loudly on hospital floors. She held a modest bouquet of white lilies and a soft leather purse tucked under one arm.

"Senators," she said, voice calm and warm, "I came as soon as I heard."

Dalton stood slowly, masking his reaction. Jim said nothing.

"I hope I'm not intruding," Risa added, stepping forward.

Jim gestured to the seat across from him. "If you came to pray, you're not."

She placed the lilies gently on the side table. "For Valen. He's always been... brilliant. Tough, but brilliant."

Dalton folded his arms, watching her closely.

Risa took a seat, folding her hands in her lap. "I've had my share of political tensions with him — we all have. But some things cut through rivalry."

Jim studied her. "You came out of sympathy, or strategy?"

She gave a small, practiced smile. "Is there a difference anymore?"

Dalton's voice was low. "Sometimes. When the blood's fresh."

Risa ignored him.

"You know," she said, adjusting a ring on her finger, "when I first saw the news, I thought maybe… maybe fate does what politics can't."

Jim stiffened slightly. "What does that mean?"

"I mean…" She looked up. "If justice won't move, maybe fate will."

There was a long silence.

Then Risa stood again.

"I won't stay. Just wanted you to know — if there's anything you need from my end... even discretion, you have it."

She offered one last glance, the corners of her lips tugging into something like respect — or pity. Then she turned and left, heels vanishing down the hallway.

The door closed softly behind her.

Dalton let out a breath. "She's hunting something. Or someone."

Jim nodded. "So are we."

He stood slowly, looking through the glass again at his son.

"If that file really found its way back... we're not just fighting ghosts anymore."

The glass doors of RHL Headquarters flashed with camera lights as reporters surged forward, microphones thrust like daggers, voices layered in chaos.

"Ms. Eliara! Did RHL knowingly assist Senator Draxford in hiding evidence?

 "Was Valen Wathers involved before his accident?"

 "Did your team forge timestamps on legal documents?"

Behind the lobby's protective glass wall, Eliara stood flanked by Andre, Valen's PA, and two in-house legal aides. Her posture was poised, suit tailored, her hair tied back in a no-nonsense twist. The bags under her eyes were subtle — but there.

Andre leaned in. "We don't have to do this now. We can release a statement."

Eliara shook her head once. "If we hide, it looks like guilt. Open the doors."

A security officer pushed the doors open. The press surged, but Eliara raised a hand — and the wave stopped just long enough for her voice to cut through.

 "There will be one statement. I will not answer scattered questions. We are not in court."

Flashbulbs popped. A hush.

She stepped forward.

"RHL has a responsibility to the people — to truth, and to justice. We have served that for over thirty years, across regimes, across scandals. The recent emergence of documents linking RHL to a misfiled case under Senator Draxford's legal oversight is under internal review."

A flurry of murmurs broke out.

 "Let me be clear — any file that passed through our chamber did so under existing chain-of-command protocols. That includes oversight from Senator Draxford's office, as well as external counsel."

A reporter called out, "Are you saying you were unaware?"

Eliara didn't flinch.

"I'm saying RHL does not forge signatures. We do not erase records. If something was hidden, then someone will answer for it — including from within our own system."

Andre gave a subtle nod from behind her — approval, confirmation, or maybe just relief.

Eliara's voice softened slightly.

 "As for Prosecutor Julian Wade's case… it was assigned to RHL under provisional review. That file never reached final chambers — because it was lost."

The crowd murmured again.

"We now have reason to believe it wasn't lost. It was buried."

Gasps.

A younger journalist called out, "Do you have proof?"

Eliara met his eyes. "We're working on it."

Then, she turned.

 "This is the last public statement until our internal panel completes its inquiry. No further interviews."

Security moved in again. Andre quickly followed as Eliara stepped into the elevator.

As the doors closed, Andre spoke softly.

 "They're going to twist that every way possible."

Eliara stared straight ahead.

"Let them."

The elevator hummed.

 "If they want war… they'll get it."

The crowd hadn't fully dispersed.

Reporters were still murmuring, some reviewing their footage, others arguing with their producers on who got the best soundbite. The RHL security team worked to push them back to the main gates.

Eliara stepped back into the lobby, her heels clicking sharply on the marble floor. Andre was beside her, holding his tablet tight against his chest.

"You held the line," he said softly.

Good

She gave a nod, eyes already scanning the corridor.

 "Check who leaked the Wade file again. I want the internal logs from two months ago—"

Suddenly, a guard's voice crackled over the radio.

 "—Ma'am. You might want to see this. Immediate delivery. Just dropped."

Eliara paused. "Delivery? From who?"

Before he could respond, the sliding glass doors flew open — just as a motorcycle engine roared into the lot.

All black. No license plate.

The figure didn't dismount. He coasted to the security line, then tossed something onto the concrete. A sealed black envelope.

And without a word, he spun the bike around and disappeared into traffic — before anyone could even react.

 "Get him!" one of the guards shouted, but the bike was already gone.

Eliara and Andre hurried down the steps.

"Is that addressed to anyone?" Andre asked, as a guard retrieved it with gloved hands.

"No name. No return," the guard said. "Just this written across the front—"

He handed it to her.

In elegant script, the envelope read:

 "For the ones who buried the truth."

Eliara felt a cold twitch at the back of her neck.

She peeled the envelope open.

Inside: a single sheet of ivory paper.

Five printed words:

 "Buried once. But not forever."

And beneath it — that same triangle in a circle, slashed through diagonally in red ink.

Andre frowned.

 "That symbol again."

Eliara's grip tightened.

"This isn't random."

She turned to the security chief.

 "I want every camera angle. Street cams, drone logs, everything. If someone is trying to play games with RHL…"

Her voice darkened.

"…they've chosen the wrong season."

The rooftop bar smelled of orange peels and jazz. The lamps were old, the wooden bar warped, but Luna's Lounge had something most places didn't — heart. And stories. Plenty of stories.

Aria Sinclair sat at her usual booth — corner seat, iced ginger water, leg slightly elevated with a discreet bandage. She wore a neutral blouse and dark pants, her coat draped beside her. She didn't look like a prosecutor tonight. Just tired.

Across from her, Luna — bold scarf tied around her head, red lipstick slightly smudged, bracelets clinking with every gesture — was halfway through her second glass of palm wine.

 "You look like you just fought a war, lost, and sued the enemy anyway," Luna quipped, tilting her glass.

Aria gave a soft laugh. "Not far off."

"You still thinking about the news?" Luna asked.

Aria didn't answer at first. She was watching the news ticker across the room.

"RHL Board Member Valen Wathers — in critical condition. Coma confirmed. Investigation ongoing."

 "You know…" Luna leaned forward. "That one — Valen, right? He used to come here."

Aria blinked. "Here?"

 "Yes, this place. Always ordered that bitter-lemon thing like he hated himself. Sat right by the jukebox. Didn't talk much. But he tipped well and never looked down on me. I liked him."

She took another sip.

> "I never knew he was one of those Wathers. RHL royalty, eh?"

Aria's eyes widened slightly.

 "You… liked him?"

"Oh yes. Had that brooding prince energy. I thought you two would match."

"Luna—"

 "Don't 'Luna' me. You bring storm energy. He brings fog. Boom — rain and thunder. I was this close to setting you two up."

She made a small circle with her fingers.

Aria laughed again, despite herself. "You say that like romance fixes national corruption."

"Sometimes love just makes the war more interesting, sweetheart."

Luna leaned back, the city lights flickering behind her.

 "But now he's in a coma, and you're wearing a bandage on your leg. And the news smells like gasoline. You sure you're okay?"

Aria's smile faded.

 "No. But I'm not falling apart either."

Luna softened, tapping Aria's hand gently.

"Good. Because something tells me this storm isn't done with you yet."

Aria glanced back at the news screen.

Her thoughts weren't on Valen the headline.

They were on the file. The name inside it.

 Julian Wade.

A black motorcycle coasted to a stop near the hospital's restricted courier bay, an area used only for authorized legal documents and lab reports.

The rider didn't remove his helmet. Instead, he reached into his jacket and handed a black-sealed envelope to a hospital logistics officer exiting the service doors with a batch of files.

 "Priority delivery for Mr. Wathers. Legal division."

The rider's voice was even, clipped — just formal enough.

The logistics officer furrowed his brow. "You have hospital clearance?"

 "I'm just the drop. It came from the central archives. Check the stamp."

He pointed to the tiny mark etched into the envelope's seal — an RHL archival crest.

Still unsure, the officer nodded and walked inside. By the time he looked back…

…the biker was gone.

Minutes later, the envelope reached the floor housing Jim Wathers and Senator Dalton. A hospital admin assistant, slightly out of breath, arrived at the waiting room door.

"Mr. Wathers," she said politely, holding out the envelope. "From the Legal Archives Department. Special handling."

Jim looked up from his seat. So did Dalton.

They took one look at the black seal — and they knew.

The hospital VIP room was quiet again — but tension had crawled back in like smoke under a door.

Jim held the black-sealed envelope a moment longer, staring at the symbol burned into the wax. He peeled it open.

Inside: a single folded document and a grainy, photocopied case record.

Jim frowned. "This case…"

He unfolded the sheet fully and stepped closer to the low-lit table.

 "Dalton," he said flatly. "This was sealed fifteen years ago."

Dalton's eyebrows lifted as he walked over, his tone shifting. "Is that… Wade's file?"

Jim nodded once. "Original investigation logs. Tampered witness list. Judicial override order. And a signature—"

He stopped.

 "Yours."

Dalton stiffened, but kept his tone even. "Jim, I signed hundreds of files during those sessions. That doesn't mean—"

"This one was hidden under your oversight," Jim said quietly. "We buried it together. No one was supposed to know it existed."

Dalton folded his arms, voice low. "Then someone wants to remind us what we buried."

Jim's jaw clenched. "They're not leaking this to destroy me. They're baiting Valen."

Dalton's gaze narrowed. "You think someone planted this in his car? That's a message to us."

Jim exhaled slowly, voice cold.

"No one else knew about this file... except Eliara."

A long silence.

Dalton straightened. "Then it's time we ask her what else she's been hiding."

He picked up the case file with a leather-gloved hand, flipping to the last page — a photo clipped to the corner.

It was blurry but unmistakable.

Julian Wade.

The man who died.

The man whose daughter now works at RHL.

The man who was never supposed to matter.

Jim set the file down.

"This just became a war."

The security office at RHL headquarters buzzed with muted tension. Low-lit monitors lined the wall, each flickering with surveillance feeds from every corridor and parking lot level.

Eliara stood behind the technician's desk, arms folded, her expression unreadable — but her voice cut sharp.

 "I want to see every frame from the last forty-eight hours. Main garage. Executive elevator. Valen's private lot."

Andre, Valen's PA, stood just behind her, nervously glancing at the black envelope that now sat on the desk between them.

"We've gone through most of the footage, ma'am," the tech said hesitantly. "There's a full log—except one gap."

Eliara's eyes narrowed. "Where?"

 "6:12 a.m., Friday. The moment Valen's car was keyed for access… the system looped. Five-minute blackout."

Eliara's voice went cold. "Looped by who?"

The technician swallowed. "It wasn't internal. Whoever did it… knew our blind spots."

Andre shifted. "That means they either had top-level access… or someone inside helped."

Eliara turned slowly toward him. "The envelope that showed up at the hospital — was it the same seal?"

Andre nodded. "Black wax. No traceable courier."

She tapped the folder on the table once, like she was measuring something invisible.

"Whoever placed that file," she murmured, "didn't just want Valen to see it. They wanted us to know it had returned."

A long pause.

 "It's not just about what's in the file," she added. "It's about who brought it back… and why now."

Andre leaned in slightly. "Should we tell Jim?"

Eliara glanced at the monitor showing a paused frame of Valen's car door.

 "No. Not yet. Not until I know if we're looking at a leak… or a trap."

The boardroom was dimly lit — not by design, but by mood. The thick curtains hadn't been drawn since the news of Valen's accident. Outside, dusk was crawling across the Langford skyline.

Jim stood by the glass wall, arms crossed, silent.

Dalton sat, one hand tapping against the table's edge.

Eliara entered last, holding a slim black folder — the recovered file.

She set it on the table without a word.

Dalton spoke first, his voice tight.

"We all agreed this was buried. Signed. Locked."

Eliara didn't blink. "And yet, it ended up in Valen's car the morning he nearly died."

Jim finally turned. "You're the only other person who had access to the archive wing, Eliara."

Her gaze sharpened.

 "And you're the one whose son nearly died," she shot back. "Don't mistake tragedy for innocence."

A heavy silence.

Dalton broke it. "Enough. Finger-pointing won't fix what's unraveling. The question is: Who dug this up… and why now?"

Eliara nodded slowly. "And how did they get past RHL's surveillance? Whoever did this has inside knowledge."

Jim picked up the folder again. "There are copies of witness redactions here that never made it past review. This isn't just a leak — it's a memory. Someone wants us to remember this case."

Dalton's voice lowered.

 "Then the real question is… how much do they know?"

Eliara looked at both men.

"If this file goes public, and it ties RHL to Julian Wade's case…"

 "We lose control," Jim finished.

Dalton stood. "We don't just lose control. We lose everything."

A beat passed.

Jim's phone buzzed once. A message from Valen's PA:

"The doctors want to meet. His brain activity changed. You should come."

He looked at the two others.

"This may be bigger than Wade now. Someone's moving — and they're not hiding anymore."

Dalton nodded grimly.

 "Then we move first."

The courtroom buzzed with quiet tension.

Rows of press lined the gallery, cameras mounted behind the glass barrier. The judge's bench stood tall and unforgiving, backed by the gleaming seal of the Langford Judiciary.

Senator Draxford, once too powerful to subpoena, sat at the defendant's table in a slate suit that no longer fit the man wearing it. Sweat glistened at his temples. His lawyer whispered something — he didn't respond.

In the prosecution row, Kayden Locke stood — crisp black suit, sharp jawline set in stone. His presence didn't fill the room by volume — it filled it by weight.

The judge tapped the gavel.

 "Order. Court is now in session."

The trial had lasted five days. And now, it was down to the verdict.

"Having reviewed the evidence presented — including multiple witness statements, financial records, and security footage linking Senator Draxford to the bribery and cover-up of a prosecutorial murder…"

A hush spread.

 "The court finds the defendant guilty on all counts."

Gasps. A flash of cameras. The sound of a reputation collapsing.

Draxford didn't flinch. But his eyes lost their shine. He looked up — toward the back — toward the gallery where no one from RHL had come.

No Jim.

No Eliara.

No favors.

Not even a call.

Kayden turned away before the sentencing was announced.

Outside the court, a young reporter whispered into her mic:

 "Breaking: RHL officials have declined to comment on the fall of Senator Draxford… sources suggest internal distancing began weeks ago."

Back inside, the judge continued.

"You are hereby sentenced to 22 years in federal prison without parole."

The gavel came down with finality.

And just like that — another crack appeared in the wall of power.

Kayden walked out into the light, briefcase in hand. Reporters swarmed, but he didn't speak. Only one thing crossed his mind:

One down. Many more to go.

The lights were low in the private boardroom at RHL.

The long glass table reflected the amber glow of the wall sconces. The room was soundproofed — a space for power, not protocol.

Jim stood near the bar cabinet, drink in hand, his expression unusually unreadable.

Eliara sat at the far end, arms folded, sharp eyes focused on the glass screen that still displayed Draxford's sentencing highlights.

The news ticker read:

 "Former Senator Draxford sentenced to 22 years in federal prison. RHL officials decline comment."

Dalton paced behind a leather chair, jaw tight.

"They made an example of him," he spat. "And we let it happen."

Jim finally spoke, voice low.

"There was no cleaning that up, Dalton. He was compromised. Publicly. Someone delivered that file."

Dalton slammed his hand on the back of a chair.

 "Exactly! And no one knows how. Or who. First, Valen's crash — now Draxford. And no one's claiming the leak?"

Eliara's voice was calm, but edged.

 "It was the black file, wasn't it? The one sealed ten years ago. It wasn't supposed to exist anymore."

Jim turned slowly.

"That file was buried with the old system. Only four of us had access."

Dalton narrowed his eyes. "And three of us are standing in this room."

A cold silence fell.

Eliara stood. Walked over to the screen. Her fingers tapped the pause icon, freezing Draxford's mugshot mid-blink.

 "Maybe someone's playing long revenge," she said. "Or maybe… someone inside wants to burn the house down from within."

Jim said nothing.

Dalton walked to the window, arms behind his back.

 "We're being watched."

Eliara turned. "Or followed."

Jim drained his glass and set it down with more force than necessary.

"I don't like not knowing."

A quiet knock came at the door.

It creaked open — Valen's personal assistant stood at the threshold, holding a small padded envelope, brow furrowed.

 "Sir… this was delivered to the hospital. No name. Just the RHL seal. Internal courier says he doesn't recognize who sent it."

Jim took the envelope, glancing at Dalton and Eliara.

He opened it.

Inside: a single photo of the black file.

And beneath it, handwritten in crisp ink:

"You've buried justice too long. It's clawing its way back."

The three of them exchanged looks — unreadable, electric.

Dalton sat down finally, voice low.

 "If Draxford was the first… who's next?"

Eliara didn't blink.

 "That depends," she said, voice flat. "On how many secrets still have blood on them."

The small, windowless room smelled faintly of ink and aged paper.

A dim, singular bulb swung gently from the ceiling, casting shadows that danced over the cluttered bulletin wall.

Red strings, faded photos, confidential documents — all tacked in precise lines — formed a dark mosaic of names and faces.

At the center of it all: a large corkboard bearing the title "Cycle of the Pact."

The newest headline was pinned last:

 Draxford Convicted – Former Senator Sentenced in Explosive Trial

Below it, a photo of Draxford being led out of court in handcuffs.

A gloved hand entered the light, holding a thick black marker.

It hovered for a second. Then drew a bold X across Draxford's face.

Below the picture, someone had scribbled:

1 down. They'll protect the next. Unless we act.

Beside it, more photos: Jim Wathers. Eliara. Dalton. Even Risa Ebone.

But only Draxford was crossed out.

The figure stepped back into the shadows, pulling the hood further over their face.

A small flick of a switchboard lit a single file at the desk — the tag read: "VALEN."

The screen nearby displayed RHL's board members. Two names flashed in red.

The figure muttered lowly, as if speaking to someone unseen.

 "If they bury another truth… we'll burn it out of them."

The long conference table gleamed under sterile lights.

Twelve seats. Eleven occupied. One empty.

Valen's.

At the head of the room, Jim Wathers leaned forward, hands folded neatly. His jaw was tighter than usual, and though he wore a tailored gray suit and a patient expression, his eyes betrayed the weight hanging over the chamber.

Eliara sat to his right, tablet in hand. She hadn't spoken yet. Not since the door closed.

Across the table, murmurs rippled softly.

 "The press is still feasting on Draxford," muttered one member, dabbing sweat from his temple. "They're making it sound like we hid him."

"Didn't we?" asked another sharply.

Silence.

Eliara's head turned — slow, deliberate.

"We were given a report. The evidence was inconclusive at the time."

"And yet it's conclusive now," said Board Member Vivian Thorne , arms crossed, eyes narrowing. "Funny how the files showed up out of nowhere."

Jim cleared his throat.

 "This isn't a courtroom. It's a boardroom. Let's speak with restraint."

"Easy for you to say," Vivian Thorne shot back. "Your name isn't next on the public blacklist."

Another voice added:

 "We've lost public trust. If the Draxford files were leaked… what else is out there?"

Someone glanced at the empty chair.

 "Valen would've calmed this mess by now."

Eliara's fingers paused on the tablet.

 "Valen is still unconscious. And frankly, some of this mess started under his watch."

Gasps. A subtle but bold shift.

Jim raised a hand, slow but firm.

 "Enough."

The room stilled.

 "No more accusations without proof. We are RHL — we don't turn on each other like mobs in a square."

One older board member leaned forward. Voice thin, weary.

 "Sir… we need to know. Was there a breach? Did someone from inside… help push Draxford out?"

Jim's silence was not the silence of ignorance — but of calculation.

 "We are investigating," he said.

 "That's not comforting," Vivian Thorne replied.

Eliara finally looked up.

"It shouldn't be."

The night air was cooler than usual.

Aria walked alone down the quiet stretch of Langford Street, her steps slow, her heel still sore beneath the bandage. The conversation with Luna echoed faintly — especially the part about Valen.

 "I didn't even know who he was. But he had a quiet sadness… like someone who's seen too much."

Aria exhaled, adjusting the strap of her sling bag. The moonlight cut sharp patterns across the sidewalk. She kept her head down.

When she reached her apartment complex, she climbed the stairs quietly, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

Silence greeted her.

She tossed her bag onto the small couch, kicked off her shoes, and reached for the small frame perched on the corner shelf. Her fingers brushed across the edge of the photo — her father, Julian Wade, smiling in a moment long buried.

She sat.

Just for a second.

Then leaned back on the couch, the photo resting on her chest, and closed her eyes.

The city faded.

And the dream began.

The screams were always muffled — like someone had muted the world just before it broke.

Her father's voice was trembling with fury. "you think you can get away with this, Dalton?"

A man's colder voice shot back. "your name won't even be remembered, old friend. This company will be mine. you've lost".

papers scattered. A drawer slammed. 

"you stole the Patent. that was my life's work"

"And what will you do? call the press?Go to court? you'II be buried before morning".

The girl whimpered silently, backing away as the shouting intensified-- until bang

Aria shot up from the couch, drenched in sweat, heart pounding against her ribs like a warning bell. The photo had fallen to the floor, the glass frame cracked.

She clutched her chest, breath sharp.

"I saw him… I saw his eyes this time…"

She stood slowly, staggered to the bathroom sink, and splashed water on her face.

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"That man…" she whispered. "He wasn't a stranger."

She looked at herself in the mirror, her reflection slightly blurred by the steam.

 "He was part of the system."

Darkness pressed in from all sides. Then a hum.

A ceiling light buzzed to life above a narrow interrogation room. It cast a harsh, sterile glow on the young man sitting motionless at the metal desk — Valen.

But not the Valen of now.

Younger. Maybe twenty-one. Jaw still angular, but softer. His eyes… unsure. He wore a legal trainee's suit — too crisp, too stiff — the kind meant to impress. His hands, though, betrayed him. They trembled.

A folder lay unopened before him. No logo. Just a simple label:

 "Wade vs Ministry: Testimony – Session 4"

He didn't touch it.

The silence stretched — until the door clicked open.

Two shadows stepped in like fate wearing polished shoes.

Senator Dalton. Younger, but no less intimidating. Sharp lines, vulture's smile.

And behind him, calm and cold — Jim. Always smiling. Always watching. The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to control a room.

Jim slid the folder toward him. "It's done. We just need your confirmation."

Valen glanced up. "I—"

Dalton spoke over him. "You're protecting the firm. Your future. Don't let emotions write your obituary."

Jim smiled gently, like a father might.

 "You're meant for great things. Don't let someone else's crusade ruin that."

Then the door opened again.

Storming in, as if he'd burned his way through walls — Julian Wade.

His real father.

But Valen wasn't allowed to call him that here.

Julian's coat still had courtroom dust on it. His eyes blazed. His voice trembled with fury and disbelief.

 "You're letting them use you?" he growled, staring at Valen.

 "Son, I raised you to fight with the law. Not to bend for it."

Jim stepped forward. "Mr. Wade, you've been dismissed from the inquiry—"

 "This isn't an inquiry. It's a burial."

Julian placed both hands on the table and leaned in.

 "You know what they did. You saw the files. You heard them laugh about wiping out pensions. And you know who signed off on it."

Valen's mouth opened. Nothing came out.

His father's voice cracked.

"If you say nothing today… if you protect them… you're not my son anymore."

Jim's hand rested lightly on Valen's shoulder.

 "If he speaks against us," he said softly, "he'll be discredited. Disbarred. Broke. You want that life for him?"

Julian's eyes met his son's.

No words. Just pain.

Valen's hand reached for the pen.

It hovered.

Paused.

Shook.

But didn't sign.

Didn't stop either.

Just froze.

 IN THE HOSPITAL (PRESENT TIME)

Valen's body jolted under the covers.

His pulse quickened.

The monitor spiked, erratic.

 "Code red — we've got neural response," a nurse shouted. "He's reacting in deep coma!"

A doctor leaned in, eyes wide.

 "He's saying something — turn the audio up!"

BACK IN THE DREAM

The air turned colder.

Julian backed away slowly. His voice dropped to a whisper, but it echoed like thunder:

 "You watched me die for this."

 "You watched the truth burn… and said nothing."

Dalton smirked. Jim said nothing.

The light above them flickered, and suddenly the room changed.

The desk, the floor — all dissolving into ash.

Valen stood now in the ruins of a courthouse. Charred files fell like black snow. Ghosts of men in suits walked past without faces.

Then, in the distance — a single gavel.

Banging.

Over.

And over.

And over.

 "You weren't supposed to forget me," his father's voice whispered from the smoke.

"And this time... you don't get to stay silent."

 BACK IN THE HOSPITAL

Valen's fingers twitched.

His eyes fluttered behind closed lids.

Then he spoke — voice hoarse, broken, barely above a breath:

 "...Julian."

The nurse froze.

 "Did he say—?"

The doctor snapped to attention. "We need to monitor everything from here on. He's fighting inside."

Back in the dark chamber of his mind, Valen turned in the shadows.

And there — among the ruins — stood a little boy.

Watching.

Waiting.

 "This time," the boy said, "don't let them win."

And then…

Silence.