"Follow me," Cobra said curtly, turning on his heel without waiting for an answer.
He led the small group and the gathering crowd away from the main building and out toward the open patch of overgrown grass behind the compound. Right in the middle of the clearing sat a dark, unsettling hole in the ground roughly the diameter of a single person, plunging down into an unknown, pitch-black depth.
As everyone stood around the perimeter of the pit, Cobra stepped up onto an empty wooden packing crate to elevate himself. He scanned the sea of faces, his deep, commanding voice carrying effortlessly across the yard.
"Good afternoon, everyone. I hope you're having a productive day," Cobra began, his tone flat, cold, and entirely devoid of warmth. "If I can get your attention here for about five minutes, I would really appreciate it."
He paused, letting the silence settle heavily over the crowd. Then, he raised a gloved hand and pointed toward the dark entryway of the inspection chamber.
"Bring them in," he ordered.
From the shadows of the doorway, a pair of guards emerged, herding a small group of Viper members forward. Smug, arrogant grins were plastered across the faces of the sycophants, all except for one.
Maarg's eyes narrowed as he stared at the men being shoved toward the edge of the pit. 'Wait... Andrew too?'
The breath caught slightly in his throat. Andrew was right there among them, his face pale and tight, completely devoid of the mocking smiles the others wore like armor.
Now then, we can let the first trial of the Vipers begin," Cobra announced, the words dropping like lead weights into the quiet clearing.
He clapped his hands sharply, the sound echoing across the grass, and turned his gaze directly toward his son. "Andrew. Would you like to tell us your side of the story first?"
Cobra's lips curved upward in a razor-thin, joyless smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Andrew stood frozen, his mouth opening slightly, but before a single word could escape, one of his loyal sycophants stepped up, puffing out his chest with an infuriatingly righteous grin.
"Bossman, we were just talking about the tragedy that happened a few days ago," the goon blurted out, gesturing grandly to the crowd. "I heard it was completely scarring on the poor girl, so we just decided to let others know so people could understand the gravity of it! Gain some sympathy for the victim, ya know?"
A collective, disgusted murmur rippled through the surrounding crowd. Even the onlookers knew the excuse was absolute garbage.
Maarg felt the vein in his temple throb. Beside him, Jack let out a low, dangerous growl, his muscles tensing like coiled steel as he stared down the smirking sycophant. The sheer audacity of spinning a targeted psychological smear campaign as "sympathy" was staggering.
Cobra didn't move an inch. His thin smile didn't fade; it just grew a fraction colder as he kept his eyes locked on the men standing at the edge of the dark, yawning pit.
.
Cobra didn't even bother acknowledging the goon's pathetic excuse. Instead, his sharp gaze shifted past the crowd, landing on someone standing quietly beside Carla.
It was Beth, the elderly compound librarian. Her frail, unassuming frame stood out sharply against the armed guards, but her eyes were steady. She was one of the few who had been working late in the archives that night and had witnessed the horrific aftermath firsthand.
"Miss Beth," Cobra said, his voice softening just a fraction out of a rare, begrudging respect. "Would you like to tell us your side of the story?"
All eyes in the clearing pivoted to the old woman. Beth stepped forward, pulling a thin shawl tighter around her shoulders, and cleared her throat. The silence in the clearing was absolute.
"I was putting away ledgers near the south wing when I heard them," Beth began, her voice trembling slightly with age but carrying clearly across the quiet grass. She pointed a frail finger directly at Andrew's smirking sycophants.
While Andrew was locked away in the medbay getting treated for his own injuries from the encounter, these filthy bastards were the ones running rampant. They were spreading the rumors, trying to weaponize his name to scare people, saying things like, 'You should fear us, we are Andrew's men,' and they..."
Before Beth could elaborate on the full extent of their threats, Cobra raised a single, gloved hand, cutting her off cleanly. The crowd held its collective breath.
Cobra turned his gaze away from the librarian and looked squarely back at his son.
"So, Andrew?" Cobra asked, his voice dropping into a quiet, heavy tone that carried an immense weight of paternal disappointment. "What's your decision? Are you still going to stand by them now that you know their true nature?"
He gestured dismissively toward the smirking sycophants, who were suddenly looking a lot less confident. "They are backstabbing, ungrateful bastards. They would throw you off a cliff the second it became beneficial to them."
Cobra let out a long, weary sigh, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. "You really need to learn how to see people's character better."
Andrew stood frozen under the searing weight of his father's gaze. The arrogant facade had completely crumbled, replaced by a raw, conflicted realization. He looked at the men he had called his crew, the ones currently sweating bullets and glaring at him behind his back, and then back at his father.
For the first time, a genuine, painful crack appeared in Andrew's armor. The heavy silence stretched across the clearing as everyone waited to see which side of the line he would finally choose.
Andrew gulped hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He stared down at the dirt, the collective weight of the compound pressing down on his shoulders. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked, stripped of all its usual arrogance.
"I-I want to change," Andrew whispered, the words shaking. "I'm ashamed of my actions. I hate myself... I want to right my wrongs and become a person that I could actually be proud of."
Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring the grass beneath his boots. The ugly reality of his own spoiled, reckless self flashed before his mind, every cruel word, every petty threat, every time he had hidden behind his father's name. Wincing, he placed his good hand over his heavily bandaged arm, his head hanging low in absolute defeat.
For a long moment, nobody breathed.
Then, Cobra let out a cold, skeptical scoff.
"Saying something and doing it are two entirely different matters," Cobra snapped, his tone devoid of any paternal softness. "Words are cheap in this new world, Andrew."
Cobra's eyes narrowed into sharp, unforgiving slits as he stepped closer to the edge of the wooden packing crate. "Now tell me, if you actually mean a single word of that pathetic speech... what are you going to do about it?"
The silence returned instantly, razor-thin and suffocating, as everyone waited to see if Andrew's breakdown was just another act, or the painful birth of a real redemption.