Part 1
This guy...how had he known I was with the twitching, nose-wiping degenerate earlier this morning?
"What's your relationship with my client?"
My arm pressed across his chest, fingers curling into the lapel of his tailored coat.
The bastard didn't even flinch. His breath remained calm, eyes locked with mine.
"I'm aware you are the lawyer who was assigned the kid's case," he said coolly, straightening his collar like nothing had just happened. "So I just guessed he was at your apartment. Turns out I was right."
A confident guess, or something more? His tone suggested both humility and arrogance—like a man used to working within loopholes and watching others fall through them.
I stared hard at his face.
There was a slight resemblance. The shape of the nose. The arch of the brow. But he was taller, leaner, skin clearer, suit crisp. There was no twitch, no stench of substances, no gauntness from chemical dependency. A version of Robert Ross that cleaned up... or maybe never got dirty in the first place.
Still, my instincts didn't lie: not a brother. Not family. Not even related.
Just a man with the same name. And yet something about that repetition—it set my nerves alight like gunpowder at the base of a long fuse.
"You've met the twin," he added as if reading my thoughts, lips curling into a smirk. "Name only, of course."
I said nothing. Behind me, I heard the clipped echo of heels against concrete. Aurelia's voice followed like a whip.
"You've got ten seconds to step away from him," came the familiar voice.
"Aurelia," I said flatly. "How poetic. You always find me in the most intimate of crimes."
"Xavier." Her voice was edged with suspicion—like she expected to find me mid-crime. "What's going on?"
"It's Saviour," I muttered, already knowing she'd ignore it again. As expected, she did.
I let go of the twin and stepped back.
"He was tailing me," I said simply. "You'd have done the same."
"I wouldn't have slammed him into a wall," Aurelia retorted. "And besides—he's not just anyone."
She turned now to look at the man. "You're... with Border Security?"
The twin smiled. "Robert Ross, Japanese Border Authority. Assigned to Syndicate infiltration investigations. I believe we may be on the same side."
Her eyes softened. "Convenient."
"Yes," he said with perfect composure. "I'm the one who had the Syndicate emissary transferred."
Aurelia's heels clicked closer. "Why didn't anyone at the station mention this to me?"
Robert Ross didn't blink. "You weren't cleared for that information. And perhaps it was safer that way—until now."
I narrowed my eyes. My ability should've revealed something by now—a real name, a hidden sin. But all I got from him was a static buzz, like a scratched vinyl record looping back on itself.
Not silence. Interference.
It unsettled me. Deeply.
Ross straightened and turned toward the alley's exit. "Follow me. I'll take you to the high-security facility. You'll need both our clearance to enter."
I hesitated. "Why the sudden cooperation?"
"Because," he said over his shoulder, "I'm tired of cleaning up your kind's mess."
High-Security Facility, Haramihama District – 90 minutes later
The gates loomed ahead like the entrance to a modern fortress—concrete, steel, biometric locks, and two levels of border military presence. Not the kind of place that welcomed lawyers or officers without clearance.
But Ross moved through with ghostlike ease. Badges, biometric scans, fluent Japanese. The gates opened for him like glass doors to a penthouse.
Aurelia and I followed reluctantly, every step forward carving the tension between us deeper. She hadn't said much since the alley. Just studied me, like I was a suspect again.
We reached the holding wing—an inner sanctum of the facility. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, throwing white shadows across the tile.
"This way," Ross said, tapping a code into the lock of Cell 3A.
The door hissed open.
Inside: a man—tall, lean, pale skin with a distinctive Syndicate insignia branded faintly on his neck, like a ghost mark beneath his collar. His eyes tracked me instantly.
Aurelia stepped beside me. "The Syndicate emissary."
Ross offered a small folder to me. "These are unsealed procedural documents. Evidence submitted anonymously two hours ago by our internal agent. It implicates him in economic sabotage—multiple imports rerouted through shell companies back to the Vexley-Ashbourne Syndicate. With this, the case is no longer optional."
I flipped through it.
Clean.
Official.
Weaponized.
Ross continued: "A formal trial is scheduled. His hearing date? June 9. The same morning your other client—Robert Ross the addict—is set to stand trial in Kyoto."
If I remembered correctly, in the card attached to the letter the syndicate sent me, they stated the emmissary's trial to be set on June 20.
Aurelia stiffened beside me. "Wait—he's defending the drug kid too?"
"That's not your concern," I muttered.
My stomach turned. "You manipulated the schedule."
"No," Ross said coolly. "I accelerated it. Your presence sped up the court's interest. Public outcry will follow soon. You've defended the Syndicate before. Your name alone rattled half the ministry."
Aurelia stepped in front of me. "Let me guess—you knew all this when you met him in the alley?"
Ross smiled faintly. "Naturally."
"You're playing both sides," I said.
"No," he said. "Just watching them burn."
Outside the facility, Aurelia stood by the railing overlooking the port, arms tight across her chest.
"You're not telling me everything," she said.
"I never do," I replied. "And yet you're still here."
She scoffed. "Because someone has to make sure you don't sell Kyoto to the Syndicate on a handshake."
Behind us, Ross lit a cigarette, the wind tugging at his coat.
"I gave you everything you need," he said.
"Two choices. Two clients. One trial date. You're a brilliant man, Mister Xavier. Let's see if you're also honest."
He walked away into the dark, his words dripping with quiet victory.
I stood between the sea and the sky.
Aurelia was watching.
The world was watching.
Two trials. Same day. No room for error.
And in my head, the names of both Robert Rosses echoed like broken mirrors.
Part 2
Outside Cell 3A, the hallway hummed with electric silence.
I walked ahead, not speaking. Aurelia's heels clicked sharply behind me—steady, like the ticking of a clock I couldn't slow down.
"So," she finally said, voice low and cold, "you were defending both of them? The syndicate operative and the junkie boy?"
Why the hell did she keep insisting on that topic?
"They're clients for God's sake," I replied flatly.
"You don't accidentally represent two opposing devils unless you're being paid by one to sabotage the other."
"Maybe I'm just better at my job than you are at yours."
She scoffed. "This job doesn't pay me to choose between monsters. It pays me to stop them."
I halted in front of the elevator. Turned slowly to face her.
"You think I don't know what that lawyer Ross is doing?"
"You mean the one who just waltzed us into a restricted border facility like it was his living room? The one who plays courtroom chess with a smile that says he already knows your next seven moves?"
Her eyes pierced into mine. "Yeah. I know what he's doing. What I don't know... is what you're doing, Xavier."
I hated how she said it—Xavier—like she'd scraped it off the bottom of her shoe.
I stepped closer.
"What I'm doing is trying to untangle a noose wrapped around both our necks."
Her arms crossed. "I don't trust you."
"Good," I said, brushing past her. "Then we're finally getting somewhere."
Later that evening, after Aurelia was gone, I returned to Cell 3A.
The guard looked uneasy. "You've got five minutes."
"Five is all I need."
The door slid open. The emissary didn't look up. His eyes were fixed on the wall. Like he'd memorized every crack in the paint.
"You recognise me?" I asked, stepping inside.
He didn't answer. Just muttered, "The lawyer with the name no one gets right."
That made me smile, bitterly.
"Your trial's been moved," I said. "To June 9."
His head tilted, just slightly.
"I see."
"I didn't request it. It was arranged... by someone else."
"Robert Ross," he said softly.
My breath caught.
He finally turned toward me—his eyes were sharper than they'd been hours ago. No longer dulled by detention.
"His name's real," he said. "But it isn't his."
I stepped forward, whispering, "Explain."
"You think you're the only one with a gift, Mister Gramwell?"
I went still.
His eyes locked onto mine. For a moment, I saw something ancient behind them. Not fear. Not loyalty. Warning.
"You're not fighting a man," he said. "You're fighting a design."
He leaned forward, voice barely a whisper.
"Whatever you choose to save—him or me—understand this: the one you leave behind was always the intended casualty."
The door hissed open behind me.
"Time's up," the guard said.
I walked out.
And the door sealed shut.