Elias woke up on the bathroom floor.
His body felt wrong. Not broken—rearranged. Muscles aching in places he didn't remember using. A deep burn ran up his right arm, curling from the base of his palm to the back of his shoulder like a brand made by lightning.
He sat up slowly.
His suit was torn. Blood stained the cuff, but he wasn't bleeding. The sword was nowhere to be seen—until he turned and saw it resting neatly beside the sink, wrapped again in the parchment.
He hadn't wrapped it.
His reflection looked back at him.
But it wasn't right.
His skin was a shade paler than normal. His pupils were narrower, almost feline, the whites of his eyes tinged faint gold.
He stared at himself for a long moment, waiting for the image to shift.
It didn't.
But something else happened. The lights flickered overhead. And just for an instant, his reflection smiled—while he didn't.
Elias flinched. And in that blink—
Everything returned to normal.
Almost.
☕ 7:12 AM – Back to Routine
Elias made coffee.
He measured the grounds precisely—one and three-quarter scoops. He didn't use sugar. Didn't own milk. The coffee mug was plain white, chipped once on the lip. He drank it standing, in silence, eyes fixed on nothing.
His apartment was painfully neat. Monastic. Books alphabetized by author. Bed made military-style. Refrigerator nearly empty.
He lived alone.
He preferred it that way.
Or at least, that's what he told himself.
At 8:03 AM, he pressed the badge to his chest and stepped into the robe.
🏛️ 8:41 AM – The Courthouse
The lobby was full of noise. Clerks chattered, attorneys argued, heels clicked over polished floors. But to Elias, it all felt distant.
His hearing dipped in and out, like being underwater.
"Judge Ward?"
"—motion to dismiss…"
"—DA's office is freaking out—"
He moved through them like a ghost.
Inside his courtroom, the air smelled of old wood, ink, dust, and a trace of ammonia. He sat in the chair, glancing through today's docket—his fingers trembling once, then still.
His palm itched beneath his glove.
When he removed it in private, the symbol remained—faint, but alive. It pulsed once every few seconds, like a second heartbeat.
The moment he touched the next case file—his hand twitched.
📂 The Next Mark
Case: Adrian Kells
Age 47.
Public defense contractor. Accused of siphoning funds and using inmates for off-record experiments.
Case dismissed two months ago due to "lack of evidence" and "national security interference."
Elias didn't remember the name—until the buzzing started.
It wasn't noise, exactly. More like pressure building behind his right eye. A low, aching hum. His fingers curled. The parchment-wrapped sword back in his apartment pulsed with warmth—he could feel it from here.
And on the table, the ink on Kells's name darkened.
As if being written again.
Elias stood.
Walked into chambers. Locked the door.
His eyes burned.
Behind his eyelids, he saw it again: the ash courtroom, the faceless Witness, the sentence passed.
He grabbed the sink. Breathed.
This was not justice.
This was not law.
This was something older.
Back on the bench, he ruled on five small motions. He granted one appeal. His voice stayed steady. His posture was perfect.
But as the last lawyer left, and the court emptied…
He caught sight of his own shadow on the polished floor.
It was moving.
Breathing.