I felt like a damn fool.
For all the detective work I had done, all the time I spent picking apart people's motives and histories, I had somehow failed to notice the most obvious connection.
Damian Voss. Camille Voss.
It had been right there.
But I had never cared enough to look deeper.
Now, I had to wonder—what was their relationship really like?
Judging from Camille's amusement at her brother's ignorance, they didn't seem particularly close. At best, it was a one-sided admiration—Damian viewing his sister as some perfect individual while Camille… well, Camille had never once mentioned having a brother.
That alone spoke volumes.
And it wasn't hard to see why.
Damian openly disrespected B-Ranks—hell, even A-Ranks who weren't at the very top of the food chain. He saw people like me as inferior.
Meanwhile, Camille had been best friends with Sienna for years, even when she was still a lower rank than her.
A clash of ideologies.
A conflict that had clearly driven a wedge between them.
But there wasn't time to think about that now.
Because the trial was about to begin.
We took our seats as the judge signaled for the proceedings to start.
This case was being publicly broadcast—which wasn't surprising. Cases involving extreme crimes, public figures, or high-stakes trials were often aired for transparency.
Of course, in this case, it wasn't about transparency.
It was about control.
The government wanted everyone watching.
A message. A statement.
The Masked Syndicate would be crushed publicly, and everyone would see it happen.
I adjusted my suit, keeping my posture firm, even as I felt the weight of a thousand unseen eyes on me.
The judge looked between both parties.
"Is the prosecution ready?"
Damian stood, straightening his jacket.
"We are, Your Honor."
The judge turned to me.
"Is the defense ready?"
I exhaled.
"We are."
The judge nodded.
"Prosecution may proceed with their opening statement."
Damian stepped forward.
And from the very first word—
I knew I was dealing with a professional.
"The Masked Syndicate," Damian began, his voice smooth and controlled, "has fooled the public for far too long. Cloaked in secrecy, hiding their true ranks, they claim to be beyond us while committing acts of terrorism and destruction."
His words were sharp, calculated.
"They are criminals masquerading as heroes. They manipulate public perception, using deception to elevate themselves beyond their true station. And today, we will expose them for what they truly are."
He continued, laying out a clear, aggressive narrative.
It was well-structured. Confident.
Every word was designed to turn the jury against us.
And worst of all?
It was working.
By the time he finished, there was an undeniable shift in the courtroom.
People were nodding along. Believing him.
Because Damian wasn't just stating an argument.
He was crafting a story.
And people believe stories.
I exhaled slowly.
This was fine.
I had prepared for this.
I had spent the last month doing nothing but studying the law, mastering every legal concept, every precedent, every tactic I could get my hands on.
And on top of that—
I had skills to help me.
I activated Opening Statement (Lv. 3).
A subtle pulse of clarity settled over my mind.
The structure formed instantly.
I stood.
And I spoke.
"The prosecution will paint my clients as villains. As criminals. As a threat to society."
I let my words settle before continuing, my voice smooth, measured.
"But what they won't tell you is the full story."
I began laying out our defense, weaving my own narrative.
"The prosecution claims the Masked Syndicate deceives people about their ranks. But I ask—how many times have those in power used rank as a means of control rather than competence? Does a number define a person's worth?"
I paused.
Then, I pushed forward.
"They claim we are terrorists. But where is the proof? Where is the evidence that my clients—who have saved lives, stopped threats, and risked everything—are the ones truly at fault?"
The weight in the room shifted back.
The jury was listening.
Engaged.
The fact that I had gone toe-to-toe with Damian's statement sent a ripple of unease through him.
I could tell.
He had experience. Years of it.
But I had adaptability.
I had studied him.
And I knew now—he wasn't untouchable.
I took my seat, my heart steady.
Damian didn't show any reaction.
But I could feel his irritation.
Good.
The fight had just begun.
The first witness was called.
Damian stood, walking toward the stand with calm authority.
I activated Scan.
[Name: Elias Moreau]
[Rank: B-Rank Firefighter]
I recognized him from my time as Mr. Fox. He was from district 49.
The district adjacent to where I had worked.
Interesting.
Elias was sworn in, and Damian began his questioning.
"Mr. Moreau, can you please state your experience as a firefighter?"
Elias straightened. "I've worked for District 49 for over seven years."
"And during your time, have you ever encountered the individual known as Mr. Fox?"
Elias nodded.
"Yes."
Damian's eyes gleamed.
"And what can you tell us about him?"
Elias took a breath.
"Mr. Fox is an accomplice to the criminal Cipher. They started fires of the event District Inferno together. I saw him with my own eyes—on the radio during the fires. And I personally witnessed him lighting a fuse."
The words hung in the air.
A murmur spread through the courtroom.
Damian turned toward the judge.
"The prosecution rests for now."
The judge nodded, then turned to me.
"Mr. Leviathan, would you like to cross-examine the witness?"
I stood immediately.
"Yes, Your Honor."
I felt the weight of the courtroom pressing against me. My first real cross-examination, and I didn't even know where to start. The accusation was so absurd, so completely detached from reality, that I found myself fumbling for a proper foothold.
But I couldn't afford hesitation.
I took a steadying breath, stepping forward.
"Mr. Moreau," I began, keeping my voice level, "you testified that you personally saw Mr. Fox committing arson. Where exactly did this take place?"
"The warehouse district," Elias answered, but there was a slight pause despite his unwavering tone . "Just near the border of District 47, near the industrial lots."
I nodded, mentally mapping the area. That was dangerously close to my actual operating zone.
"And you claim you saw him light a fuse?"
"Yes."
"How far away were you?"
"Roughly twenty meters."
That should have been a weak point. The visibility in an active fire zone—between the flames, smoke, and general chaos—would have made identifying someone that far away nearly impossible. I pressed forward.
"You're a firefighter, Mr. Moreau. You've been in countless fires before. Would you say visibility in those conditions is clear?"
His lips curled slightly. He had expected this.
"It depends," he said smoothly. "It's true that fires cause heavy smoke and reduced visibility. But it also depends on wind conditions, the direction of the fire, and my vantage point. That night, I was stationed on an elevated fire escape with a clear line of sight to the scene."
Damn. That was a good answer.
I adjusted my stance.
"You were standing on a fire escape," I repeated. "Near a burning building?"
"Yes."
"Wouldn't that have been dangerous?"
"I assessed the situation before moving there," he said calmly. "The structure beneath me was stable, and I was wearing my protective gear. Besides, it was my duty to get a better view of the situation so I could report it properly."
I resisted the urge to grit my teeth.
I was trying to poke holes in his claim, but instead, I was reinforcing his reasonability.
I shifted tactics.
"You said you saw Mr. Fox using a radio before lighting the fuse. What kind of radio?"
"A private one. Not standard issue for firefighters."
"Did you hear what he said?"
"No. I was too far away."
I narrowed my eyes slightly.
"So you didn't hear him speak, but you're certain he was communicating with someone?"
"Yes."
"How?"
Elias exhaled, his patience almost mocking. "Because I saw him press the radio to his mask, pause as if listening, and then respond before lowering it again."
I felt my jaw tighten.
I was trying to make him sound uncertain, but his answer was completely logical.
I needed another angle.
"Let's talk about the fuse," I said, shifting my focus. "You claim you saw him light it—can you describe it?"
Elias tilted his head slightly. "It was short. About ten inches."
"Did it burn quickly or slowly?"
"Quickly."
"What did it ignite?"
"A set of stacked wooden pallets, which were doused in an accelerant."
I blinked. An accelerant?
"You saw the accelerant?"
"I saw the way the fire spread," Elias countered smoothly. "The moment the fuse burned down, the flames jumped unnaturally fast, consuming the pallets instantly. That's a clear sign of an accelerant being used."
I felt my stomach twist.
That was plausible. Fires didn't spread that aggressively without help.
And if the jury believed that—then they believed this was arson.
My heartbeat picked up. I needed to change direction now. I started asking questions to which the answers were so obvious that even I knew.
"You claim that you were responding to this fire in District 47," I said, trying to turn this back on him. "But as a firefighter in District 49, why were you there at all?"
Elias barely even paused.
"We were requested for backup due to the sheer scale of the fires," he answered smoothly. "District 48's forces were stretched thin, and we were rerouted to assist."
"Do you have proof of that?"
Elias smiled slightly. He had been waiting for this.
"The dispatch records from that night will show that I was given clearance to assist."
I felt a sinking sensation in my gut.
I had tried to corner him. But he had an answer for everything.
His voice remained even, unwavering. I wasn't cracking him—I was making him seem even more credible.
And then, the worst part—
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked onto mine.
"You seem nervous, Mr. Leviathan," he remarked. "Almost like you weren't expecting me to be this prepared."
I clenched my jaw.
The jury was watching.
Damian was smirking.
This was slipping away from me.
I needed to turn this around.
Somehow.
I straightened. Took a slow breath.
And then, with booming confidence, I said—
"I have one final question, Mr. Moreau—"
The courtroom went still.
And for the first time—
I was in control again.