I'm back at the morning the jury reads the verdict

The corridor outside Courtroom 3B was a gauntlet of marble, oak, and blinding flashbulbs.

As soon as the heavy brass-handled doors swung open, the murmuring crowd surged against the velvet ropes. Three sketch artists were already pushing their way toward the gallery benches. Two local television reporters with microphones held at shoulder height were talking in breathless, dramatic cadences about the "Trial of the Century" and the "Fallen Wunderkind of Chicago Tech."

I walked with my chin up, my back straight as forged rebar.

My public defender, David Miller, fell into step beside me, wiping a sheen of nervous sweat from his red, alcohol-flushed forehead. He clutched his scuffed leather briefcase against his ribs like a shield.

"Ethan, listen to me," Miller muttered under his breath, his voice trembling with the defeatism that had doomed me in the past. "If it's guilty across all twelve counts—which, given the forensic accounting reports, is practically guaranteed—Judge Harrison is going to remand you immediately. No bail pending sentencing. I’ve already prepared the standard motion for appeal based on ineffective assistance of initial investigators, but don't hold your breath."

"Shut up, David," I said.

My voice was neither loud nor angry. It was flat, low, and laced with such sharp, subterranean authority that the lawyer actually stumbled over his own wingtips, staring at me as if I had suddenly sprouted horns.

"I... what?" Miller stammered.

"You haven't argued a single substantive objection since jury selection," I said, not slowing my pace. "You let the prosecution submit altered mirror-server images without demanding the original cryptographic salt hashes. You let Julian Cross testify as a character witness for thirty minutes without asking him who authorized the wire transfers from the Zurich liquidity pool."

"The evidence was certified by the state's cyber division!" Miller hissed defensively, glancing nervously at the reporters.

"The evidence was purchased, David," I replied, pushing open the swinging gate of the bar and stepping into the well of the courtroom. "Sit down, keep your mouth shut, and don't speak unless I tell you to."

At the prosecution table sat Marcus Sterling, Clara’s uncle and the state’s special prosecutor assigned to high-profile financial corruption. Marcus was fifty-eight, wearing a tailored charcoal suit, his cufflinks flashing silver in the morning light. He looked over his shoulder at me, his mouth twisting into a condescending, victorious smirk. To him, I wasn't just a criminal; I was the commoner who had dared to sleep under his family's roof and was now getting what he deserved.

Directly behind the prosecution table sat the gallery’s front row.

Julian Cross sat beside Clara Sterling.

Julian wore his bespoke navy double-breasted suit, his blonde hair slicked back with razor precision. He had his left arm draped protectively around Clara’s shoulders, his fingers lightly brushing her cashmere sweater. Clara was dressed in mourning black, holding a linen handkerchief, her eyes rimmed with red, playing the part of the shattered, betrayed fiancée to absolute perfection for the cameras.

When Julian saw me sit down at the defense table, his eyes met mine.

In my first life, I had looked at him with pleading confusion, begging silently for a gesture of support from my brother in all but blood.

Today, I held his gaze.

I didn't blink. I tilted my head by a fraction of an inch, letting a slow, icy smile touch the corners of my mouth.

Julian’s smirk wavered. His brow knit together, a microscopic flicker of unease darting across his pupils before he leaned down to whisper something reassuring in Clara’s ear.

"All rise," the bailiff bellowed, his voice echoing off the high plaster ceiling.

The courtroom stood in a synchronized rustle of wool and leather.

From the private chambers behind the bench, Judge Evelyn Harrison emerged. She was sixty-two, with steel-rimmed spectacles, iron-gray hair pulled back into an architectural bun, and an expression that had sent forty men to maximum security without flinching.

She took her seat on the bench, adjusted her reading glasses, and looked down at the court clerk.

"Has the jury reached a verdict in the matter of The People of Illinois v. Ethan Mercer?" Judge Harrison asked, her voice dry as parchment.

"They have, Your Honor," the clerk replied, holding up a cream-colored manila envelope.

"Bring in the jury," Harrison commanded.

Beside me, David Miller sank into his chair, his hands shaking so violently that his pen rolled off the defense table and clattered against the parquet floor.