258 IT ALL COMES DOWN TO THE BROKEN CLOCK
[Back to the Criminal Court of Silver City]
Lander rose slowly.
"Your Honors," he said evenly, "the defense submits Exhibit One—video footage establishing the accused's alibi."
A holoscreen lit up.
The video showed Zairgid walking into a pantry, casually preparing a cup of coffee. He chatted briefly with a young clerk, smiling, relaxed—very much alive and very much elsewhere.
"Objection!" Ambrone shouted, leaping to his feet. "This footage is irrelevant!"
"This video was recorded by a covert camera secretly installed by a staff member," Lander replied calmly. "The timestamp matches exactly with the prosecution's alleged murder footage."
He turned toward the bench.
"I ask the court—how can Zairgid Aukouma be in two places at the same time?"
The courtroom erupted in murmurs.
Every major network instantly redirected their feeds. Reporters leaned forward.
Something had just shifted.
"I challenge the authenticity of the defense's video," Ambrone snapped.
"That has already been addressed," Lander replied. "The court's technical department has verified this footage as genuine."
A witness was brought forward—the clerk from the pantry. She testified under oath that she had spoken with Zairgid at the exact time the murder supposedly occurred.
Ambrone sank back into his chair.
It was a setback—but it wasn't a defeat, yet.
"Then what about the physical evidence?" Ambrone said sharply. "The bloodstained dagger?"
"Which brings us to Exhibit Two," Lander said. "A forensic report on the alleged murder weapon."
The document appeared on-screen.
Ambrone squinted. "The fingerprints belong to Zairgid Aukouma alright."
"Yes," Lander agreed, smiling faintly. "But isn't it curious that a weapon used in a close-range stabbing… contains almost no blood?"
The murmurs returned, louder this time.
"What are you suggesting?" Ambrone demanded, scanning the report.
"If the accused committed the murder," Lander explained, "the dagger would be saturated with blood. Instead, it has been thoroughly cleaned—then the accused's fingerprints were artificially imprinted afterward."
"This is a frame-up!" someone shouted from the gallery.
Ambrone wiped sweat from his brow.
"Perhaps," he said quickly, "we may have identified the wrong murder weapon."
Lander didn't hesitate.
"Your Honors, the prosecution's case now rests on speculation alone—its video evidence is in doubt, and its physical evidence is compromised."
"Our video has been certified!" Ambrone insisted. "It is not wrong."
"Is that so?" Lander asked.
He raised a small evidence bag.
"Then let us proceed to Exhibit Three."
The broken clock.
The crowd stirred at its admission.
"What can a broken clock possibly prove?" voices whispered.
Ambrone laughed bitterly. "Is this your final evidence? A broken clock?"
"Please," Lander said calmly. "Watch closely."
The prosecution's video replayed.
Zairgid threw the clock at Arom, but it barely touched him before it went off-screen and fell away.
"That's it," Ambrone scoffed. "It broke when it hit the wall."
"That would be plausible," Lander replied, "if the clock had merely shattered."
The holoscreen zoomed in on the physical evidence.
"But this clock," Lander continued, "was crushed."
He turned to the judges.
"The court's technical team conducted a structural analysis. This damage could not have been caused by impact alone. It required direct compression—by someone possessing meta-level strength."
"Someone could have broken it afterward," Ambrone protested.
"Then how do you explain this?" Lander asked.
Another image appeared.
"The victim's fingerprints are all over the clock," Lander said. "And not lightly. The pressure imprint indicates Arom Aukouma crushed it with his own hands."
The room exploded into argument.
"In the prosecution's video," Lander continued, raising his voice just enough, "Arom never touches the clock. So how did his fingerprints get there—and why do they show crushing force?"
The crowd rose in murmur again.
"Silence!" the judges commanded.
The courtroom stilled.
Lander faced the bench.
"Your Honors, this broken clock proves one thing beyond doubt: the prosecution's video omits a real event. Arom Aukouma crushed this clock himself—an action erased from the footage entirely."
He paused.
"That video is a forgery. An extraordinary one at that…. but a forgery nonetheless."
The murmurs returned—this time, in agreement.
-----
After hours of deliberation—and despite heavy pressure from the SIA to secure a conviction—the court had no choice.
The prosecution's case had collapsed.
Zairgid Aukouma was released.
By the time he returned home, the weight on his shoulders had finally begun to lift.
Damen was waiting for him.
"Oh buddy," Zairgid laughed, pulling him into a tight hug. "I knew it. You were the one who got me off the hook this time, weren't you?"
Damen smiled faintly. "Lander did most of the work. I only helped where I could."
Zairgid turned immediately and hugged Lander as well. "Thank you. Truly."
Then Zolan Aukouma stepped forward and embraced his son, his voice thick with emotion."Son, I'm so relieved you came back safely."
"Don't worry about me, Father," Zairgid said. "I have good friends." He paused.
"How's the company holding up?"
Zolan's expression darkened.
"We lost Aukouma Auction," he said quietly.
Zairgid froze. "What? How is that even possible?"
"Kassely," Zolan replied. "Your assistant. She reported the company for mismanagement and tax violations. The city moved immediately—foreclosure, license revocation. Everything."
"That bitch—" Zairgid snapped. "Why would she do this?"
"She was likely bought," Lander said flatly. "By the same people who framed you."
Zairgid's voice trembled. "What did we do to deserve this?"
"We became inconvenient," Zolan answered. "Since arriving in Silver City, we've taken too much business from too many powerful families. That is the reality of the business world."
Damen said nothing.
He already knew the truth.
Aukouma Corporation was believed to be the financiers working for Liberty City and the Alliance of Psyche.
The Godfather couldn't strike them directly, so he severed theirfinancial support instead. Without Aukouma Auction, they had no legal channel to sell meta-artifacts—their primary source of income.
That was when it hit him.
"It's no longer safe for me in Silver City."
"What do we do now, Father?" Zairgid asked.
Zolan managed a tired smile. "As long as we're alive, that's enough. We can rebuild."
"But the city is sanctioning us," Zairgid protested. "How do we even start again?"
"We leave," Zolan said simply. "As a businessman, we'll always have to prepare for contingencies. Over the past year, I moved funds quietly to Trentango City. If things ever turned hostile here, we wouldn't be starting from nothing."
"You've prepared that?" Zairgid asked in shock before turning to Damen. "What do you think?"
Damen nodded slowly. "It's the right call. If Silver City's going to squeeze you, staying only invites moreproblems."
"And you?" Zairgid asked. "Will you come with us?"
"I will," Damen said after a pause. "Once I finish some matters here."
Zolan straightened. "Then it's decided. We leave tonight."
"Tonight?" Zairgid asked. "Why so soon?"
Zolan's eyes hardened.
"The court let you go too easily," he said. "Those who moved against us won't accept that quietly. If we stay, they'll find another way to hurt us."
He placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"We leave before they do."
------