Chaos is a specific, terrible sound. In the courtroom, it was a rising roar of shouts, gavel strikes, reporters yelling questions, and the scuffle of chairs. It was the sound of a world turning upside down.
At the defendant's table, Cassian stood motionless as two FBI agents moved to cuff him. His face was not one of panic, but of cold, furious clarity.
"These allegations are absurd," he stated, his voice cutting through the din, not shouting, but projecting with the force of a command. "The devices are a plant. The security logs for my penthouse will show unauthorized access during the siege. Your 'protected source' is the man orchestrating this entire charade."
The lead FBI agent, Agent Fletcher, was unmoved. "The evidence is material, Mr. Thorne. It's been found. Your theories can be explored from a federal holding facility."
"This is a setup!" Daniel roared, surging forward, only to be blocked by a third agent. "You're playing right into his hands! The man who just had a corrupt judge removed from the bench is now being framed by the same network!"
Thomas was on his phone, his face pale, his voice a rapid, desperate whisper. "No, listen to me… I don't care about jurisdiction, you need to get a message to the Director of National… what do you mean the line is being blocked? That's impossible!" He slammed the phone down, running a hand through his hair. Every digital and political backdoor he and Cassian had cultivated was slamming shut, one by one. The seal was absolute.
In the hospital room, the chaos was silent and suffocating. The live feed from the courtroom played on the muted television, a horrific pantomime. Elara watched, her body trembling, as they put hands on her husband. A low, wounded sound escaped her.
"No, no, no…" she whispered, her hands clutching the blanket over her legs.
Serena stood rigid by the window, her knuckles white where she gripped the sill. The two CPS officers, who had been standing down, were now back at attention outside the door, their posture communicating a new, grim reality: You are not to leave.
"They can't take him," Elara said, her voice gaining strength, laced with hysteria. "They can't! He didn't do this! Mother, we have to—"
"We can't," Serena said, the words ash in her mouth. She turned, her face etched with a pain that mirrored her daughter's. "If we step out that door with the babies, we give them a reason to take the children too. We are under siege by the law itself now."
On the screen, they saw Cassian, his hands cuffed behind his back, being led from the table. He didn't look at the cameras. He looked directly at his lawyer, Eleanor Ryder, and said something too quiet for the microphones. She nodded, her face set in granite.
---
In a tastefully subdued Upper East Side townhouse, far from the cacophony, an old man sat in a wingback chair, a porcelain cup of espresso steaming in his hand. The wall-mounted television was tuned to the courtroom feed, the volume low, providing a chilling soundtrack to his morning.
J watched with the detached appreciation of a director reviewing his finest scene. The chaos was not messy; it was orchestrated.
His phone purred on the side table. He picked it up. "Yes?"
"Sir, the package has been delivered and confirmed by the search team. The narrative is locking in."
"I am aware," J said, his eyes on the screen where Cassian was being escorted out. "The work is accomplished. The bonus will be transferred to the usual account. Maintain silence."
He hung up. From the kitchen, Mateo wandered in, carrying a plate of golden fried chicken. He leaned against the doorframe, watching the television with a smirk.
"Quite the drama, isn't it?" Mateo said, biting into a drumstick.
"Indeed," J replied, taking a sip of espresso. "I wonder if your siblings are watching."
Mateo shrugged, speaking with his mouth full. "Anya called. She said, 'Oh, come on, even a school play is more interesting.' Her exact words. The other two are, as usual, busy. Our diligent bookworm is dating his research, and our super-active racer is on the track, probably breaking a speed record to avoid the news."
A faint smile touched J's lips. "And what do you think of the production?"
"The plan is playing out beautifully," Mateo said, dropping into an opposite chair. "But, a question, Pa? When did you actually place the bombs? That was a masterstroke."
J's smile grew a fraction. "What do you think? Remember, I instructed Marcus to threaten the maid, Hestia, to leave the terrace door unlocked?"
Mateo's eyes widened with dawning understanding. "I thought that was just for his mercenaries to breach during the siege."
"That was Marcus's crude interpretation. My man entered the night before the siege. While the household was distracted with fear and preparation, he placed the devices in the very wall the architect had reinforced. The irony is delicious. So, you see, even if they had miraculously won custody today, I would still have revealed the 'terrorist plot.' They never had a chance to win. They were playing a game where I had already written the final move."
Mateo let out a low whistle. "I have no words. That's genius, Pa."
Before J could respond, the sharp sound of the doorbell echoed through the townhouse.
Ding-dong.
Both men froze. Mateo set his plate down. "Takeout?"
J's eyes narrowed. "Did you order something?"
"Huh? No. As you can see, I'm already eating fried chicken."
A cold, unfamiliar prickle traced J's spine. "Then who is at the door?"
Mateo stood, wiping his hands. "Let me see."
"Mateo," J's voice was a quiet command. "Be careful. I have a… bad feeling about this."
"Okay, Pa." Mateo moved to the sophisticated security panel, checking the feeds from the discreet cameras covering the porch and street. Nothing. No car, no delivery person. He disarmed the silent alarm and opened the heavy oak door a crack.
The pristine steps were empty. The quiet, tree-lined street was still.
He opened the door fully and stepped out, his senses on high alert. His foot nudged something. He looked down.
A large, flat cardboard pizza box sat directly on the welcome mat.
He picked it up, his fingers checking for wires, weight discrepancies. He brought it inside, placing it on the hall table, and quickly scanned it with a small, handheld device from his pocket. No explosives. No tracking signals.
"Nothing," he reported to J, who had now risen from his chair. "No one outside. Just this. And the perimeter alarm didn't trigger. At all."
J stared at the red and white box as if it were a coiled viper. His eyes flicked to the television, where the chaos in the courtroom was reaching a fever pitch. The FBI was filling out paperwork, preparing to transport Cassian. The victory was seconds from being complete.
"Cut the pizza," J ordered, his voice tight.
"Uh… okay?" Mateo found a knife and sliced through the cardboard. Inside was a perfectly normal, stone-cold cheese pizza. He broke off a tiny piece of crust, hesitated, then put it in his mouth, waiting for the burn of poison or the dizzying effect of a drug. Nothing.
"It's just pizza," he said, baffled.
J, his expression unreadable, slowly reached into the box. He lifted a slice. Underneath it, nestled against the cardboard, was a square of thick, black paper, perfectly folded.
He put the slice down and picked up the paper. It unfolded without a sound. On it, in crisp, printed font, was a message. At the bottom, in a flowing, elegant hand with stark white ink, was a signature.
He read it. Once. Then again.
J, his expression unreadable,
The debt of a name is called on dead bodies? Not fair.
I am sorry for destroying your backup nets. So, I sent you a pizza as compensation.
But honestly, instead of chess, I am more interested to play Carrom with you.
Oh! Nothing too personal. I just want to defeat you in Carrom too.
May your debt be cancelled out by mine~
- 𝓖𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓬𝓱
He read it. Once. Then again.
Mateo watched as the color, the supreme confidence, drained from his father's face. A fine sheen of sweat appeared on J's temple. His hand, usually so steady, gave the faintest tremor.
"Pa? What is it?" Mateo reached for the note. J didn't stop him. Mateo's eyes scanned the words, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What does this mean? 'Backup nets'? Who is 'Glitch'?"
J didn't answer. He snatched his secure phone from the table as if it were a lifeline. His fingers flew across the screen, accessing encrypted lines, checking the statuses of offshore accounts, dummy corporations, communication relays—the intricate, hidden web he called his "backup nets."
One by one, the status lights turned from green to red. CONNECTION LOST. SERVER OFFLINE. ACCOUNT FROZEN. ROUTE DELETED.
"Dammit…" he breathed, the curse sounding foreign and desperate in his mouth. The note wasn't a taunt. It was a receipt. Someone—this "Glitch"—hadn't just found his hidden systems. They had dismantled them with the casual ease of someone cancelling a subscription, and then sent a pizza to rub it in.
"What's happening?" Mateo asked, alarm rising.
J looked from his deadening phone screen to the television, his mind making connections at a terrifying speed. The perfect, insulated victory suddenly felt porous, exposed. If someone could do this—reach into his most secure digital entrails from nowhere—what else did they know? What else could they touch?
On the screen, the courtroom chaos was undergoing another shift…
As the FBI agents finished their paperwork and moved to lead Cassian away, the main doors of the courtroom swung open once more.
This time, the man who entered did not need to shout. His presence commanded the room into instant, dead silence. He was in his late fifties, tall and broad-shouldered, with a close-cropped silver beard and eyes the color of a winter sky. He wore not an FBI windbreaker, but the impeccable dark blue uniform of a United States Deputy Director, the seals of the Department of Justice and the FBI gleaming on his chest.
Every FBI agent in the room, including Agent Fletcher, immediately snapped to attention, their faces a mask of shocked recognition. This was a man who operated from the stratosphere of power, whose name was whispered in the halls of the Hoover Building, who hadn't set foot in a public courtroom in over a decade.
Judge Linwood, recognizing him, slowly stood. "Deputy Director Smith," he said, his voice hushed with surprise and respect. "To what do we owe this… unexpected presence?"
The Deputy Director, Alexander Smith, gave a curt nod to the judge. His gaze swept the room, pausing on Cassian in cuffs, on the stunned faces of Daniel and Thomas, on the hovering cameras.
"Let's get to the point," Smith's voice was a low, gravelly baritone that required no microphone to fill the space. It was the voice of ultimate authority. "Time is precious, and a grave injustice is being televised live."
He turned his frosty gaze directly on Agent Fletcher. "Agent, you will uncuff Mr. Thorne. Immediately."
The confusion hung, razor-sharp, in two rooms: in a townhouse where a pizza box had shattered a mastermind's composure, and in a courtroom where a ghost from the highest echelon of power had just walked in and changed the game.