The room was thick with electricity, heavy in the weighted silence, as William sat down at the defendant's table, his white hair and red eyes sticking out like a beacon in the sea of dark-suited officials, lawyers, and onlookers that had come to witness the trial of the century. Cameras clicked softly, journalists were writing down furiously, and murmurs filled the air as people made furtive glances towards a young man turned out to be the center of a nightmare-the boy whom they called the *Red Wraith*-accused of causing deaths of 802 people within the Silent Fleet.
This man was the prosecutor, stern and sharp-faced, his unyielding glare painting an already grim picture of events, as he wielded each piece of evidence as if a weapon. The clarity of his voice chilled men, for he spoke in tones without passion, telling them of the finding of the Silent Fleet-a fleet of corpses that floated, void of life, each person frozen in unnatural peacefulness as if some silent, unseen force had stolen their lives out in a single instant.
The prosecutor rounded on William in a low, inexorable tone of accusation. "The defendant," he growled, pointing at him with calculated slowness, "is no ordinary man. His powers, his past, and his very existence violate all conventional explanations. And though we may not comprehend the exact nature of his power, one thing is irrefutable: every shred of evidence points to him as the source and sole cause of the tragedy that visited those 802 souls.
Eyes turned to William; mixed into their gazes were fear and fascination, outright horror. They would lean in, entranced, toward the young man whom they seemed to think had life and death in his hands.
Witnesses were called, each to tell their encounters with William, speaking about rumors of his supernatural powers and strange behaviors, telling stories of him as some sort of enigma capable of things unimaginable. The government's own scientists took the stand, describing phenomena that seemed to defy nature, linking them in carefully chosen words back to him, though inconclusive, implying a haunting possibility that whatever lay within William had the potential to kill, without warning, on an incomprehensible scale.
His defense attorney, a calm and pragmatic woman, fought back with reason, challenging each insinuation with logic and the lack of concrete evidence. She insisted, that while William did have abilities that no one understood, there was no proof that he used them with malice or intent to harm. "My client," she spoke from the heart, "is as much a mystery to himself as he is to the world. We cannot convict a young man for something which he may not even be in control of, let alone a crime he has never confessed to."
William sat silent-faced, impassive, his mind a turmoil of memories, of emotions: the day he had learned of the Silent Fleet, accusations that had swiftly followed. He recalled every terrified stare, the whisper of *murderer,* and *monster.* And as the trial continued laboriously, he felt the whole courtroom weighing upon him, expecting him to somehow confess and to somehow show the truth of the nightmare that nobody was able to comprehend.
The prosecutor's words had fallen ominously in the hall as the trial dragged on. "We may not fully understand his abilities. But we know the consequences of his presence, Silent Fleet is evidence enough of the danger he poses."
The weary firm eyes of the judge had come to rest on William. "We are dealing with a very special case," he said, his voice booming in the silence charged with tension, "one which challenges us to reconsider the meaning of justice, guilt, and innocence. Yet, the evidence we have before us dares us to think that we are dealing with forces beyond our control, forces that have taken lives."
With that, the judge called for a recess, and William was led from the courtroom, feeling the weight of the entire world bearing down upon a boy accused of holding death within him, awaiting a fate that with every passing hour seemed darker.
The courtroom was silent as William rose from his seat and made his way to the witness stand, every step echoing through the tension-filled space. The judge's gaze followed him, impassive yet intense, as William settled into the chair, his pale hands gripping the armrests. The harsh light overhead etched into relief his white hair and red eyes, a combination which in some strange way seemed to add an extra layer to the underpinning of fear in the room. A hundred pairs of eyes weighed upon him, sought, searched out of curiosity, others from fear, and some even with a kind of pity.
The prosecutor strode toward William, tall and impassive, his eyes holding him the way a man would look at a riddle he'd solved once but couldn't quite remember the key to. "Mr. William," he began, his voice sharp and controlled. "You have avoided questions about the Silent Fleet since this inquiry first began. But today, we must have answers. People want to know what-or whom-you are."
William held the prosecutor's gaze, his face guarded, his mind churning with emotions and memories he'd kept locked away for years. The faint tremble of fear, the quiet ache of exhaustion from carrying his secrets alone for so long felt those. But there was something harder beneath, a quiet strength that had seen him through years of isolation and distrust and whispers of a *monster.*
Tell us, in your own words," the prosecutor pressed on, his voice growing with emphasis, "how you explain the events that left 802 people dead among the Silent Fleet."
William slowly takes the court through the events of that day, leaving not a single stone unturned and no question unanswered. His voice begins to crack as he begins to describe the events that took place a few moments prior to the death of his biological mother. The whole nation is taken through the court trial as the Red wraith had become quite famous. Citizens feel for him beneath all the scary stories told and the haunting shows made from him is but a lonely boy who lost his mother to a bunch of mindless Heretics, it was all but a reaction.
Anyone who could reason right knew that the mental balance of a little boy was fragile, so just imagine your mother being killed in cold blood right before you, he had the power to seek vengeance and he did just that, though does that justify the death of the other villagers?
The courtroom fell dead silent, with the voice of William cutting into that void, quiet, clear, and unhesitating. "I plead guilty," he said with words clear as crystal to send a shockwave across the jammed chamber.
Gasps of surprise reverberated through the room, jumping like wildfire. Journalists went out of pens down, rushing for an afterthought of what had just come forth as faces lit with a mix of shock and incredulity. Onlookers who had braced themselves on the belief that this was some sort of mistake sat frozen, mouths covered or exchanging glances of horror. A murmuration started to build into a cacophony of voices-a storm full of exclamations of disbelief and frightened murmurs.
The judge's face did not reveal his emotions, but something indecipherable flashed in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of the words spoken by William. The triumph of the prosecutor was felt only fleetingly, the corners of his mouth twisting into a grim line as he wrapped his mind around the unexpected admission. An unseen atmosphere weighed upon the guards that had stood in the back, and they stirred uncomfortably.
William looked around at faces he had grown to familiarize himself with; now, though, they were distorted in horror and betrayal. Teachers and classmates he'd once said hello and goodbye to, neighbors from his past, and even some of the orphanage staff all stared at him as if he were an unholy thing, a creature from their worst nightmares.
A woman in the crowd whispered in a hushed voice, "He did it…" as if she could scarcely believe it. Another spectator murmured, "I always knew there was something wrong with him." The accusing mind of fear was etched on every face that confronted him-brands of silent accusation, unspoken sentences.
But in all that shock and fear, some bypassed the anger into something almost like pity: a boy, young and burdened, who had been forced to carry something terrible alone. They might sense, perhaps, that there was more to his story than a simple confession, but again they did not draw near him either.
The judge cleared his throat, attempting to call the room to order, but his voice was barely audible over the din. William sat there, the enormity of his admission sinking in, the finality of the words settling over him like a weight severing him from the last ties of his old life alone amid the crowd.
The crowd had heard all he heard to say only to completely ignore it and focus on his plea, twisting his words in a dyslexic sort of way.