“That’s impossible—”
The bailiff freezes mid-step, his hand still hovering near Hope’s arm. The prosecutors stare in open disbelief. Defense attorneys rise from their chairs without even realizing they are moving. Someone drops a pen. It clatters loudly, absurdly, against the marble floor.
Hope doesn’t move. She just looks up at the judge, her small face pale but steady, as if she has rehearsed this moment in her head a thousand times.
Judge Callaghan’s mouth opens. No sound comes out. His eyes dart around the room, searching for an escape that no longer exists. His legs shake, not with paralysis, but with fear.
“Sit down,” he snaps finally, his voice cracking. “Sit down right now!”
But the courtroom is already in chaos.
A journalist in the second row is on his feet, phone raised, recording everything. Another is already whispering furiously into an earpiece. The clerk at the side of the room stares at the judge as if seeing a ghost.
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“You… you can walk?” someone blurts out.
Callaghan slams his hands on the bench. “Order! ORDER!” His voice echoes, but it no longer carries authority. It sounds desperate.
Darius Moore turns slowly from the defense table, chains rattling softly around his wrists. His eyes widen as they land on the judge—standing, breathing, exposed.
