Under the gray mantle of the stormy sky, the encounter between Dean Carleone and Alva acquires a gravity that cuts deeper than the cold wind that accompanies the rain. Alva's revelation, pronounced with the characteristic coldness of a high court judge, resonates with the finality of a verdict already decided: "Dean Carleone. You have been temporarily desecrated for abandoning your mission, resulting in treason. The penalty is death."
Dean, confronted with the imminence of his end, opens his eyes, as if awakening from a long reflection, and faces Alva directly. The meeting of his blue eyes with hers, white as snow, is a silent duel, where the tension between life and death, duty and accusation, is palpable.
Judge: A pillar of the high court, in charge of maintaining order and executing justice in the dark underworld of crime. They are the final arbiters of the laws that govern the shadows, a position that Alva, alongside her twin sister Nívea, occupies with unquestionable authority.
"I want to ask for one thing before I die," Dean says, his voice carrying a mixture of resignation and defiance. Alva's question, "What would that request be?" floats between them, an invitation for Dean to reveal his last wish before the abyss.
With a smile that perhaps hides more than it reveals, Dean articulates his final wish: "I want a trial first. To prove my innocence and loyalty."
Alva's answer is immediate and relentless, a final sentence pronounced without hesitation: "Request denied." The authority of her voice summons a supernatural force that dominates Dean without warning, bending his will and his body with the ease of folding a sheet of paper. He kneels, not out of respect or voluntary submission, but because he is forced to do so, a demonstration of power that leaves him powerless, controlled by something beyond his understanding.
"Damn! Should I use my dismantle?" Dean's mind runs in search of solutions, a flash of despair illuminating the darkness of his situation. But reality imposes itself with the clarity of a sky after the storm. "No… My dismantle won't work on her. I must continue the appeal."
"Dean Carleone, by my authority as a judge, I declare you permanently discredited—" Alva begins the proclamation of her final verdict, her voice carrying the weight of a sealed fate.
But it is then that Dean, in an act of courage or perhaps desperation, finds the strength to interrupt the judge's sentence, declaring with an iron determination: "I am Dean Carleone. Member of the high command recruited personally by Michael Valachi. I, am the last heir of the Carleones. I have the right to demand a trial, and you, are obliged to accept it."
Alva, imposing in her unshakable authority, reiterates her control over the situation with a coldness that seems to emanate from the depths of the eternal winter. "I am the one who decides everything here," she declares, each word a reminder of the order that she is in charge of maintaining. "Rules and consequences. Without them, the world would have already ended, since human nature is destructive and cruel." Her speech is not only a sentence, but a philosophy, a belief in the structures that keep the chaos of human nature under control.
Dean, facing this wall of ice, tries once more, despite the pain that consumes him, a pain that twists his body and tests his resilience. "Reconsider my request," he begs, his voice laden with a mixture of despair and hope, a last effort to reach the compassion or perhaps the justice in the judge's heart.
"Reconsideration denied," Alva exclaims, cutting off any hope with the precision of a guillotine. Her decision, final and irrevocable, is the manifestation of the law that she serves, a demonstration that, in the realm where they operate, the rules are supreme, and mercy, a luxury rarely granted.
Dean, confronted with the immutability of Alva's verdict, cannot contain an expression of deep frustration. "Shit…" escapes from his lips, an eloquent summary of his situation.
In a moment of desperation turned into determination, Dean unleashes the power that he kept as a last resort. The smile that appears on his face, even as blood drips from his nose and his eyes acquire an intense red hue, is the premonition of a twist. "Dismantle!" The word, loaded with all the force of his will, is more than a command; it is the declaration of a counterattack.
The effect is catastrophic and immediate. Thousands of cuts, invisible and merciless, spread over an area of 20 meters, a storm of blades that does not distinguish between flesh and concrete. Alva, with her sharpened senses, perceives the imminent threat and retreats instinctively, her reaction a testimony of the devastating power of Dean's ability.
The hospital, the setting of so many stories of pain and hope, now falls apart under the uncontrolled force of the cuts. The structure, unable to resist the invisible storm, collapses into a cloud of dust and debris. Dean, the epicenter of this chaos, falls along with the wreckage, but somehow manages to stay above the destruction, a castaway on the remains of a world that he himself undid.
"What a peculiar innate ability… Invisible cuts? Apparently, it has a range of up to twenty meters," Alva comments, her voice revealing a mixture of surprise and evaluation as she floats above the apocalyptic scene. Her observation, distant and analytical, contrasts with the violence of the destruction below.
Dean, exhausted and wounded, coughs blood, the price of his resistance marked in every painful breath. "Damn. If I had taken a few more seconds, I would be dead by now." His realization, whispered between coughs, is a grim acknowledgment of the thin line between life and death that he just crossed.
Alva, observing the destruction below, weaves her observations with an almost scientific curiosity. "Intriguing that you possess an innate ability," she questions, the surprise veiled in her voice suggesting a discrepancy between the expectations and the reality that Dean presents. "According to the information conceived, you were supposed to be a mere class G."
Dean, not losing his momentum even in the face of the revelation of his supposed insignificance in the records of the high court, responds with a defiant smile. "Oh, really?!" he exclaims, pointing an accusing finger at Alva, a provocation that transcends words, seeking to test the limits of the power that Alva represents.
In this impulse of challenge, Dean releases his ability once again, "Dismantle", sending a new wave of invisible cuts in Alva's direction. But, as if dancing with the wind itself, Alva disappears at the exact moment when the cuts should hit her, a figure that moves with the grace and precision of someone who knows deeply the mysteries of movement.
She then reappears, balanced on a pole, the serenity of her expression in absolute contrast with the chaos that Dean unleashed. "That speed and perception. She can see my dismantle. I deeply regret creating her," he laments internally, a mixture of admiration and regret that could only come from someone who just realized that he taught the trick of disappearance to the rabbit in the hat.
"What is the name of that ability?" Alva asks, with the serenity of someone who asks about the weather, completely disregarding the gravity of being in the middle of a duel that defies the laws of physics.
"Huh? It's dismantle," Dean replies, perhaps wondering if he should have chosen a more pompous name, something like "World Annihilator" or "Destiny Cutter". But no, "Dismantle" sounds quite practical, thank you.
"Interesting…" Alva ponders, before disappearing in the blink of an eye, leaving Dean with the feeling that maybe he should have paid more attention in the classes of "How to Detect When You Are Under Attack by a Supernatural Judge 101".
And as if she were participating in a ghostly relay race, Alva passes by Dean with the lightness of a whisper, leaving him with nothing but a sensation of "Oh, so she really disappeared". When Dean finally realizes that it is time to turn around, he discovers that his body has decided to become a fan of the floor, heavy and decidedly closer to the earth than he would prefer, sinking as he bleeds. A beautiful Tuesday, isn't it?
Alva, then, decides that it is time for a little poetry amid the chaos, placing her palm on Dean's back and reciting "Animae Dotes Sigillo Obstruo", which, for Dean, probably sounds like "I'm going to ruin your day in a very complicated way". Ah, the magic of ancient words, always bringing more drama to the party.
"A sealing enchantment?!" he thinks, surprised, as if the idea of being subjected to ancient magics was as unexpected as finding a sea lion doing crochet in the middle of the room.
Dean's white hospital shirt tears, revealing a locked triangular tattoo. "Dismantle!" Dean tries to invoke, hoping that his innate ability can, somehow, cut through the magic seal like a hot knife through butter. But, oh, his ability is as restricted as the diet of a model two weeks before fashion week.
"I will reconsider your request for a trial," Alva declares, throwing Dean a thread of hope as thin as the line between genius and madness. But before Dean can even begin to ponder the legal implications of his situation, or perhaps send a silent thank you to the gods of irony, his consciousness decides to take a vacation, plunging him into a darkness so deep that it would make the abyss look like a shallow hole.
[...]
Author's note:
Thank you for reading!
Illustrations of some characters in the comments below