I stood there with my palms damp on the wooden edge of the witness stand, and the air around me carried that stillness that only ever happened before something irreversible. The courtroom lights pressed down with a quiet heat, making my shirt cling to my back. It felt as though the walls themselves were leaning closer, waiting to hear me ruin myself.
"Your Honor…" My voice cracked before the words shaped themselves. "Here it goes. I'm… I'm doomed, aren't I?"
A whisper of movement spread across the benches. Logan lifted his head sharply as if he couldn't believe I had spoken, but I didn't look at him. I kept my eyes down, fixed on the thin shadow my wrists left on the wooden rail.
"There's no redemption for me," I said. "I see it. Pretending otherwise would be stupid. I've been stupid enough."
The judge's face blurred at the edges. My throat tightened. My breathing tangled with the cold dryness of the room.
"But since I've got nothing left… nothing to lose… there's something I need to say."
My fingers curled, knuckles burning from how tightly I held on.
"Henry Powell asked me to light the fire," I continued. "He told me the house would be empty. He gave me the time. He said go. And like an idiot I believed him."
A murmur rose like a tide then fell again. My stomach churned.
"If you're going to hold me accountable, he should be right next to me. Patrick Swanson too. And whatever he shook hands with in the dark. But that won't happen. I'm not protected. Henry is. Patrick is. They stand behind thick doors and thicker names, and I'm standing here alone."
I lifted my head for the first time. My gaze wandered across the courtroom — the prosecution's table, the stiff rows behind them, Logan's rigid posture. Everyone waited for me to stop. I didn't.
"This is my statement under oath," I said. "He drove me into it. He made me sign something. You'll find it somewhere — done by hand. No transfers. No calls. Everything through burner phones. His secretary Helena brought me the instructions… and the money."
My breath trembled.
"And you want to talk about corruption? Ebonreach is rotting. The South is disappearing into dirt and hunger, and the North keeps eating what's left. You're not going to fix any of it. You're not going to touch the men who made this mess. You're going to touch me because you can."
My voice thickened. The words poured out before I could stop them.
"I can't go back to my cell and wait for another trial that won't work. It won't. I know it won't. I see it in every face here. I see it in yours. I'm done pretending I have a chance."
The silence clenched around me. Even the air felt heavier.
"I did it," I whispered. "I'm guilty. I burned the house because Henry Powell told me to. I did it for money. That's who I am. That's what I've become."
My throat seized. The courtroom swayed. When I spoke again my voice cracked open like something splitting down the middle.
"But I didn't know anyone was inside."
The words left me in a rush, ripped out of me before I could breathe.
"I didn't know," I repeated. "I swear, I didn't know. I loved Eddie. God, I loved him so much. We fought, we drifted, but he was still… he was still my Eddie. And I didn't know he'd be there." My chest tightened, heat pooling behind my eyes. "Why was he even in that neighborhood? Why that house? What the hell was he doing there?"
My breath shook.
"But it's not just Eddie. I'm not a monster. If I had known anyone else was inside I would never have… I would never…"
My voice collapsed entirely. I pressed my forehead to the rail, trying to steady myself, but the tears came hot and sudden, streaking down my cheeks.
"I didn't understand Henry's reasons," I choked. "I didn't know the elections had anything to do with it. I'm not that smart. People think I pretend to be clever, to have things figured out, but I wasn't built for this. I just did what I was told."
My vision blurred. Someone took a breath behind me — too slow, too deliberate. Harry.
I forced myself to lift my head toward him.
"If you're still here…" My voice trembled like a frayed thread. "If any part of you is still inside there… I'm sorry."
The words dragged out of me, raw and cracked open.
"I'm sorry I messed everything up. I'm sorry for what I did. There hasn't been a second I didn't think of you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
My chest heaved. The room barely felt real. I couldn't see the judge clearly anymore, only the outline of the bench and Logan's stunned stillness.
Logan looked as though someone had pulled the floor out from under him. His mouth parted, his eyes wide — a man watching a ship sink with someone he swore he could save still standing on deck.
The courtroom didn't move. Not a whisper. Not a gasp. Just silence — thick, suffocating, absolute.
And I stood there with tears dripping off my jaw, knowing I had said too much, knowing I had ended myself, feeling every pair of eyes peel back the last layer of hope I ever had.
The silence didn't break. It stretched, tightening around me the way a noose waits for gravity. My tears kept slipping down my face, each one landing on the polished rail with a faint tap that felt too loud in the hush. My breath shuddered, catching on the edges of the words I couldn't swallow back.
The judge leaned forward. Not much — just enough that the fabric of his robe whispered across the bench. The sound made my skin prickle. His eyes fixed on me with a steadiness that felt carved from stone.
"Mr. Hollands…" He paused, clearing his throat softly. "…do you understand what you have just said?"
"I do." My voice rasped, thin, trembling. "It's the truth."
Something tightened at my side. Logan stood — slowly, like someone rising through deep water. His hand hovered near my arm but didn't touch it, as if afraid he'd turn me to dust if he did.
"Your Honor," he said, and his voice broke on the edge of disbelief, "I need a moment with my client. For the record, the defense objects to any further questioning until consultation occurs."
The judge didn't blink. "Counselor, your client spoke voluntarily."
"I understand that, but he is in—"
"He understood the question."
Logan's jaw clenched. His hand curled into a fist against the table before he made himself relax it.
"Your Honor," he tried again, quieter, "he's… he's not in a stable condition."
"I'm standing right here," I whispered, wiping my face with the back of my wrist.
"You don't have to say another word," Logan murmured without turning his head. His voice trembled in that furious, helpless way that lawyers tried to hide. "Hugo, please."
But the judge was already looking past us.
"Prosecution," he said. "Do you have questions for the defendant?"
For a moment, I thought the prosecutor wouldn't move — as if even she was startled by what I'd just offered up. Then she stood, smoothing her blazer, her expression composed but sharpened by opportunity. The subtle hunger in her eyes made my stomach twist.
"Yes, Your Honor."
She approached slowly, each step measured. Her heels clicked softly on the floor, and every sound felt amplified.
"Mr. Hollands," she said, her voice mild, almost gentle in a way that made my throat tighten, "you stated that Henry Powell instructed you to ignite the fire at the residence in question."
"Yes."
"You admit to accepting payment for this action."
"Yes."
"You admit you carried it out."
"Yes."
"And now you claim ignorance regarding the victims inside."
"I didn't know," I said, breath trembling. "I swear—"
"And yet you ignited the structure." She tilted her head. "Knowingly."
My heartbeat skidded.
"I… I thought it was empty."
A faint shift behind me — fabric brushing against wood — pulled my attention toward the benches. Harry sat impossibly still. His posture was too straight, his uniform too crisp, his eyes too… fixed. Like someone sitting in a borrowed body.
The back of my neck went cold.
The prosecutor followed my gaze for a moment, then spoke again.
"You addressed Mr. Doyle just now. Why?"
I swallowed, breath stinging my lungs.
"Because… because I owed him an apology."
"For what?"
"For… for everything."
She didn't soften. Not even for a second.
"Mr. Hollands, did you know Mr. Doyle would testify?"
"Exactly before the first trial, yes."
Her lips barely twitched. "And you spoke to him directly."
"I—" My voice cracked. "I recognized something."
She stepped closer. "Something?"
Something inside me recoiled. I couldn't answer. I wasn't sure what the right answer even was.
Harry shifted again — the smallest tilt of his head — but it sent a tremor through me that knocked the air out of my chest. His eyes weren't Harry's. They were too still, too bright, too observant, as if a lantern had been placed behind them.
My mouth worked soundlessly until the judge cleared his throat.
"Mr. Hollands," he said, "you may answer the question."
I swallowed hard.
"I recognized the way he… looks at me," I said. "But it's not him. Not entirely."
A ripple swept through the gallery — quiet, startled.
The prosecutor's voice thinned to a blade.
"And yet you apologized to him."
"Because he mattered to me," I whispered. "Because I ruined everything."
Harry leaned back slightly. The gesture was too smooth, too deliberate, the kind of movement that didn't belong to someone made of fear and memory. It belonged to something that observed rather than lived.
I felt the mark under my ribs tighten, as if responding to his presence.
The prosecutor closed her folder.
"No further questions, Your Honor."
Logan nearly collapsed back into his seat, his hands burying into his hair for a moment before he straightened again. His voice was raw when he spoke.
"Your Honor… may we recess?"
But the judge's eyes were locked on me.
"Mr. Hollands," he said, voice low, grave, "you have confessed to arson for hire, acknowledged your role in a fatal incident, and implicated a sitting minister."
"I know."
"And you did so under oath."
"Yes."
"And despite your lawyer's instruction to refrain from speaking further."
"Yes."
He exhaled slowly, as if weighing the shape of the world before he placed it on my shoulders.
"In light of today's testimony," he said, "this court will recess for review of the new statements. The defendant is remanded into custody. Officers, take him back to the holding cells."
The sound of the gavel cracked through the room like a bone breaking.
My knees almost buckled.
Logan shot to his feet.
"Hugo— don't move, I'm coming with you—"
But the officers were already closing in. Their hands gripped my arms, cold through the fabric of the uniform. The cuffs bit into my wrists.
As they led me toward the side door, I glanced back once — just once.
Harry was still watching me.
Not blinking. Not breathing the way a human breathes. Not moving except for the slow turn of his head that followed my steps like a moon tracking its tide.
A quiet voice—not Harry's, not human—brushed the inside of my skull.
"This is still unfinished."
I stumbled, almost fell, and one of the officers tightened his grip.
Behind the benches, Logan's voice rang out, frantic, echoing down the corridor as they pulled me away.
"Hugo! Don't say another word— don't look at him— I'll fix this, just keep walking—"
But his voice dimmed as the hallway swallowed me whole, and all I could feel was the burning cold of Harry's gaze imprinted behind my ribs like another mark.
The door clicked shut behind us with a sound that felt final. The holding-room walls were gray, windowless, almost humming with the leftover silence of the courtroom. Logan paced once, twice, then turned on me with a look that wasn't anger so much as disbelief wearing a cracked mask.
"Why would you do that?" he whispered, as if the air itself shouldn't hear. "Hugo—why would you say all of that? Why would you throw yourself like that?"
I didn't give him the chance to finish.
"Can't you see," I said, my voice shaking from the inside out, "I don't want you to change anything. Let the dead rest. Just let them rest, Logan."
His expression froze.
"I'm done," I said, louder now. "I don't want this anymore. Fuck it. If I'm going to spend the rest of my life in prison, then fuck it—let it happen already. No more trials. No more hearings. No more hope dangling in front of my face like bait."
My breath broke, hitching deep in my chest.
"This is wrecking me," I whispered. "This is fucking wrecking me. I can't keep doing this."
Logan moved closer, voice trembling with the kind of control people used only when they were about to lose it.
"You were not supposed to—Hugo, you are not alone in this. You do not get to say the final word here. This isn't just about you. I'm in this with you. Do you have any idea how this is going to look on me?"
I laughed—dry, bitter, raw.
"You shouldn't have taken this case from the beginning," I said. "You knew exactly what you were getting into. You knew I was drowning before you even reached out your hand."
"That's not fair—"
"You didn't even ask me the right questions, Logan."
His jaw snapped shut.
"You were doing well," I said, softer, shaking. "I admit that. But I'm done. I've had enough. I've fucking had enough. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep running in circles. They drag every ghost into that courtroom—every face, every name that ever touched me."
My voice collapsed into a tremor.
"My brain is splitting. Do you get that? I am nothing but memories, Logan. Nothing but the shit I lived, the shit I caused, the people I lost. I have no future. I can't see one. I'm just my past wearing skin."
He stared at me, startled, as if he didn't expect the words to cut through like that.
"I'm trash," I said. "Just like my father. And maybe… maybe if my mother had kept me—if she hadn't left—maybe none of this would've happened. Or maybe it still would have. I don't know."
I pressed the heel of my hand against my eyes, but the tears kept spilling through.
"I don't know," I whispered. "I don't fucking know anymore."
My knees almost gave out. Logan reached for my arm, steadying me, his breath unsteady.
"Hugo…"
All the strength I pretended to have drained from me in seconds.
"All I have is the past," I said. "Every time I try to look forward, it's like I'm staring into a wall. So just let the dead rest. Please. Please, Logan. Just let me go."
My shoulders shook, and I leaned against the cold metal table because it was the only thing that didn't sway under me.
"I am nothing but memories," I said again, voice breaking into pieces. "So let me go. I don't deserve this life. Or maybe I do. I don't know."
My tears hit the table, dotting the surface like tiny dark seeds.
"I don't know," I whispered again, collapsing inward. "I don't know."
When the recess ended, the courtroom lights felt harsher than before, as if someone had scraped the warmth out of them. We were brought back in through the side door, the officers flanking me with a stiffness that wasn't there earlier. Logan walked beside me, shoulders drawn tight, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles flickered under the skin.
The judge returned last.
His robe moved like a dark curtain behind the bench, the fabric settling with a soft exhale that made my stomach twist. He adjusted his glasses, reviewed the paper his glasses, reviewed the papers in front of him, and lifted his eyes.
It was the kind of gaze that weighed the soul before it judged the body.
"Mr. Hollands," he said, his voice low but clear enough to reach every corner of the room, "this court has reviewed the statements made earlier today."
My chest tightened.
"The defendant has offered sworn testimony admitting to the act of arson on the night of September eighth, acknowledging receipt of payment, acknowledging knowledge of the intended target, and acknowledging responsibility for the resulting fatality."
Logan shifted beside me. I heard him exhale through his teeth, quiet, resigned.
The judge continued.
"These admissions constitute a direct confession to offenses of the highest severity. Given the gravity of the crimes, the public implications, and the supernatural elements referenced in the ongoing investigation, the court finds that continued proceedings in a lower jurisdiction are neither appropriate nor within procedural scope."
My fingertips went numb.
"Accordingly," he said, voice steady as stone, "this court binds the defendant, Hugo Hollands—also known as Hugo Verran—over to the High Court of Ebonreach for trial under the statutes governing capital offenses and supernatural entanglements."
The words struck like a hammer. Final. Heavy. Irreversible.
He turned a page, his fingers steady.
"In addition," he said, "the defendant's emotional and psychological state, as observed during today's testimony, raises concerns about competency to proceed. This court therefore orders a mandatory psychiatric evaluation to be conducted at the earliest availability."
My heart dropped. The floor felt further away, as if I were standing on air that refused to hold me.
"This evaluation," he continued, "is not a determination of guilt, nor does it negate the statements already entered into record. It is strictly for the purpose of assessing the defendant's present mental stability and capacity to withstand trial."
Logan tried to speak — "Your Honor—" — but he lifted his hand, and the room fell silent again.
"Furthermore," he said, "in light of the confession, the severity of the charges, and the defendant's recent behavioral history within the remand facility, this court reaffirms its earlier determination that bail is inappropriate. The defendant will remain in state custody pending transfer."
A long pause followed.
It felt like the world held its breath.
Then:
"Officers," he said, his tone final, "remand the defendant."
The gavel struck once — sharp, echoing — and the sound dug into my chest like a splinter.
Everything after that blurred.
Logan's voice in my ear, trying to tell me something urgent. The officers gripping my arms. The scrape of chairs as people stood. The rustle of papers. Someone whispering. Someone else gasping softly.
But the only thing I truly saw — the only shape that remained clear — was Harry.
Sitting in the second row. Back straight. Hands clasped. Eyes empty and fixed on me, as if whatever lived inside him recognized the ruling before I did.
As if it had been waiting for this.
The mark under my ribs tightened again, a slow cold pressure that made it hard to breathe.
And as they led me out, one step, then another, the judge's words kept repeating in the back of my skull like a drum struck endlessly in a dark room: Bound over to the High Court. Psych evaluation ordered. Confession accepted. Remand affirmed.
The hallway swallowed me whole.
The officers guided me down the hallway again, their hands firm on my arms, but I barely felt it. Everything inside me had gone still, as if something had blown out the last candle and left me walking through a room made of shadows.
The van door opened. The metal groaned when they slid it aside. I climbed in without being told. The bench was cold, the air stale with the odor of old sweat and disinfectant. The door shut behind me, sealing me in with the hum of the engine.
I let my head fall back against the wall.
Numb. That was the only word left that came close.
It wasn't sadness anymore. It wasn't fear. It wasn't even despair.
It was the weight after the spill—nothing left to grip, the body folding around the emptiness.
The van jolted forward. The movement swayed me gently, and for a second it reminded me of nights in the shelter when the trains passed under the windows and rattled the bunks. Eddie used to complain about it, say he wanted silence someday, a room where nothing shook, nothing leaked, nothing kept him awake.
I exhaled, the air leaving my lungs in a shudder I didn't try to hide. My wrists ached where the cuffs pressed. My ribs pulsed where the mark lived, tight and silent, like something holding its breath.
I kept thinking of the courtroom — the faces turned toward me, Logan's shock, the prosecutor's sharp eyes, Harry sitting there like a statue with something inside him that wasn't him at all.
And somewhere in all of that, something broke. Something final.
I wasn't fighting for a future anymore. I wasn't fighting for anything.
Maybe this was what it meant to lose — not in a loud way, not with fire or violence — but in a slow collapse, breath by breath, until the body simply stopped reaching for the surface.
The van turned. The wheels ground over uneven asphalt. The remand facility rose ahead of us, its gray walls swallowing what little light the sky still held.
I didn't lift my head to look.
I just let the numbness spread.
I told myself I was tired. Just tired. Just tired enough to stop hoping.
My eyes stayed on the floor of the van — scuffed metal, faint scratches, the kind of marks made by people who also sat here once and went where I was going now. People who probably said too much. People who probably stopped believing they had anything left to protect.
For the first time in my life, I understood them.
The van stopped. The door slid open. Cold air touched my face.
I didn't move until the officer told me to.
When my feet touched the ground, I felt nothing at all.
And maybe that was the closest thing to peace I was ever going to get.