The Escape from Colling Graham-23

Breaking News: "Kael 'Arsène' Kai, the greatest thief known to mankind, has been apprehended by his arch-nemesis, Garibaldi."

The headline flashed across screens in bold red as the camera panned to a live scene outside a courthouse.

"Kael's trial is set to take place one month from now," announced a reporter, the gravity in her voice underscored by the bustling crowd behind her. The camera then shifted focus, centering on Garibaldi himself—his appearance as disheveled as it was eccentric.

Dressed in a weathered black trench coat that hung off his tall frame like an afterthought, Garibaldi exuded an odd, effortless charisma. His tie—once a sensible blue—was tied around his head as a makeshift headband, his baggy jeans scraped the ground, and his bare feet added a peculiar touch that suggested a man indifferent to convention or consequence. Yet his piercing gaze betrayed a mind constantly at work, calculating, assessing, always one step ahead.

"Garibaldi," the reporter began hesitantly, thrusting a microphone toward him, "what are your thoughts on Kael's arrest?"

Garibaldi tilted his head as if amused by the question. "My thoughts? They're simple. Nothing's certain. You arrest someone like Kael, but permanence? That's an illusion." He smirked, an unsettling expression. "I actually pushed for his immediate execution, but the law disagreed. A shame, really."

The reporter blinked, taken aback by his nonchalance. "I... see," she stammered, her composure briefly shaken by the offhanded mention of execution.

Attempting to steer the conversation to less morbid ground, she pressed on, "Many believe you and Kael share an interesting dynamic. Could you shed some light on your relationship?"

Garibaldi's eyes gleamed with something between amusement and disdain. "Relationship? If orchestrating death games with nuclear bombs aboard ships counts, then sure, we have a fantastic relationship." His tone was dripping with irony. "Kael's a performer, a liar at heart. His talent lies in making you believe he's your closest ally until, inevitably, you find yourself robbed blind. That's the kind of man we're dealing with—a charmer, yes, but a viper nonetheless."

The reporter ventured further, her voice steady despite his disconcerting intensity. "If Kael had chosen the side of good, how different would the world look today? After all, he's never taken a life—at least, not yet."

Garibaldi gave a dry laugh, shaking his head slowly. "Kael's not bound by concepts like 'good' or 'evil.' They're meaningless to him. The only compass he follows is pleasure—be it material thrills or psychological conquests. He doesn't obey laws, rules, or ethics; those are cages he's spent his life breaking. The only reason he hasn't killed anyone is because he hasn't needed to. Had it entertained him, I guarantee you, we wouldn't be speaking right now. To ask whether he's capable of good is to misunderstand him entirely. Good would demand sacrifice, limitations. Kael thrives on chaos. To be good would strip him of everything that makes him who he is."

The reporter paused, absorbing his words, before murmuring, "I see." Her unease was almost palpable.

The broadcast abruptly cut to another segment. The camera transitioned to a separate newsroom, where a different anchor elaborated on Kael's incarceration.

"We've received additional information regarding Kael 'Arsène' Kai. He is currently being held at Colling Graham-23, colloquially known as the 'Twenty-Three Degrees of Isolation.' Officials report he's been placed under maximum security with the highest level clearance: Code 12. For now, it seems the so-called greatest thief is finally out of the game. But for how long? Time will tell."

The anchor's words left a lingering question in the air, one that even Garibaldi's confident smirk could not fully erase.

______________________________________________________

"Finally, the cat caught the mouse," said a woman, her eyes glued to the broadcast as Kael 'Arsène' Kai's face flashed across the screen.

"Honestly, I never thought he'd get caught," said the man beside her, shaking his head in disbelief. "The guy survived being strapped to a chair while an entire building was bombed around him!"

"You shouldn't be so surprised," interjected a man with glasses, his tone sharp and precise. "Garibaldi was on his tail. Do you even know who he is? Garibaldi's not just any detective—he's a legend. He's solved every case he's ever taken on, from cold trails to impossible leads. And don't forget, he started with nothing and built his reputation through sheer brilliance and grit."

The man with glasses adjusted his frames, the glint of confidence in his eyes unmistakable. "And now Kael's sealed away in Colling Graham-23. That place isn't a prison—it's a graveyard. No one leaves Colling Graham-23. Not the guards, not the investigators. It's a fortress of surveillance, cameras rolling every second of every day, watching everything. Twenty-four-seven. Escape? Impossible."

He leaned forward, a smirk curling his lips. "You think one degree of isolation messes with your head? Imagine twenty-three. That's where they've put him. Isolation like that doesn't just confine the body; it breaks the mind."

The woman crossed her arms, nodding grimly. "So, it's really over for him."

The man beside her let out a sigh. "Kael might be a genius—hell, maybe even the smartest man alive—but intelligence means nothing in the face of absolute power. He won't beat the system. Not this time."

"You say he's just a thief, but my brother? He's in a coma because of one of Kael's stunts. That so-called 'genius' caused a fire in our building. He doesn't care who he hurts."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the flickering screen casting shadows that seemed to underscore the finality of their words.

__________________________________________________________________

A heavily secured convoy moved down the road at a measured, deliberate pace. At its core was an armored van, flanked by military vehicles on all sides and shadowed overhead by three helicopters in a precise triangle formation.

Inside the van, in a dimly lit seating area, four men occupied the cramped space. Two were armed military officers, their gazes cold and unyielding, rifles resting securely in their laps. Seated across from them was Garibaldi, his signature black trench coat draped around him like an air of authority. Beside Garibaldi sat the prisoner—a man of striking presence.

His features were sharp and handsome, save for a noticeable scar that etched its way across his left cheek. His hazel-brown eyes, vivid and full of depth, remained lowered, shadowed by the soft waves of his flowing brown hair. He sat in silence, the weight of his supposed fate etched into the sadness on his face.

"He's been like this since we picked him up," one of the military officers muttered, glancing at the prisoner. "Are you sure we've got the right guy, Garibaldi?"

Garibaldi didn't even blink. "I know Kael when I see him. This man is Kael. No doubt about it."

The prisoner lifted his head, his expression a storm of frustration and desperation. "How many times do I have to tell you?! I'M NOT KAEL—I'M KARVEL! Karvel Ispa!" he shouted, his voice raw with indignation.

Garibaldi's unflinching eyes locked onto him, his tone calm yet filled with unwavering conviction. "Your tricks won't work here, demon."

The man's hazel eyes burned red, a flicker of fury and despair breaking through. "Why won't you believe me?"

Garibaldi remained unfazed, checking his watch. "Your act is futile, Kael. It's over."

The van slowed as they approached their destination. Garibaldi addressed the soldiers curtly, his voice cold and commanding. "We've arrived. Unload him and take him inside."

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances before nodding. Moving quickly, they subdued the prisoner with a sedative, his protests cutting off as unconsciousness took him. They wrapped him in heavy blankets and carried him out into the harsh glare of searchlights that lit up the stark, foreboding structure of Colling Graham-23.

As the convoy dispersed, the distant hum of the helicopters overhead signaled the end of Kael—or Karvel's—journey.

_____________________________________________________

The man stirred awake, groggy and disoriented. His surroundings offered no solace—bare gray walls, harsh fluorescent light, and the unyielding confinement of a small, cold cell. His frustration surged as reality settled in.

Fury coursing through him, he slammed his fists against the unfeeling walls, leaving angry red marks on his knuckles. He banged his head against them, desperate and defiant, the dull thud echoing through the sterile room.

"LET ME OUT!" he roared, his voice hoarse. "Let me out!"

The sharp crack of a whip silenced his outcry, searing pain ripping across his skin. "Lower your voice, ant," a woman sneered, stepping into view.

She was stunning, with striking features that could disarm any stranger. But her icy, merciless eyes told another story—a tale of apathy and cruelty.

The man met her gaze, his anger momentarily eclipsed by sorrow. "Ma'am, you have to understand," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "I-I was framed. I'm not who you think I am, I—"

Another lash interrupted him, cutting him off mid-sentence.

"Tsk, tsk." The woman tilted her head, a cruel smile tugging at her lips. "I expected more from the man who robbed Germany blind. But this? This is just... pathetic."

"Stop it, Nadia," came a deep, gruff voice from behind her. A towering man stepped into the room, muscles taut beneath a plain shirt. The name "Roy Cortez" was emblazoned on a badge clipped to his belt. His stern expression hinted at authority, though it was devoid of warmth.

Nadia turned to him, her tone mockingly sweet. "Big brother, I was only having a little fun. Look at him—doesn't it amuse you to see the so-called 'greatest thief' reduced to this?"

Roy's cold eyes lingered on her briefly before shifting to the prisoner. "Enough."

Facing the man in the cell, Roy spoke in an even tone that carried no real remorse. "Apologies for the inconvenience she's caused you."

But his words were hollow, empty of any sincerity. If anything, they were a courtesy offered out of habit, not humanity.

Nadia's smirk deepened, and the prisoner could only wonder how many games lay ahead in the unforgiving walls of Colling Graham-23.

Roy shoved the man into the chair, his motions controlled but laced with tension. His voice cut through the stale, clinical air like a blade. "Nadia, pay attention. This is how you interrogate."

She leaned against the observation window, arms crossed, expecting to witness the surgical precision her brother was known for. Yet something was… different. As Roy stepped closer to the disheveled prisoner, his usually impenetrable gaze flickered, narrowing with suspicion before softening with doubt.

The man slouched in the chair, wrists cuffed, body trembling from exhaustion. His hazel eyes were bloodshot, his breath uneven, his clothes a torn and dirty shadow of whatever they had been. Yet despite his state, there was a strange tension in him—a nervous energy that vibrated beneath his surface like a wire about to snap.

Roy leaned forward, his tone sharp and unyielding. "Tell me, Kael. Why did you burn down Fitzelgord?"

The prisoner flinched, eyes widening as if struck. "I AM NOT KAEL!" His voice cracked with desperation. "I'm Karvel Ispa!" he bellowed, his hands clenching so tightly the tendons bulged against his pale skin.

The name echoed in the room, defiant yet hollow. It was a declaration Roy had heard countless times before—the classic ploy of someone trying to slip the noose. But this time, something felt different.

Roy's eyes, keen and unrelenting, searched the man's face for the telltale cracks: a quiver of the lips, a dilation of the pupils, a shift in the tone. His legendary "Emotion Eye," the tool that had laid bare the darkest hearts of terrorists and criminals alike, worked flawlessly—always.

Except now.

Roy's jaw tightened. He straightened, covering his unease with calculated control. "Let's take it easy," he said, his voice forced into calm neutrality. For a moment, it sounded like he was trying to reassure himself as much as the man in the chair.

The prisoner shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "You have the wrong man," he whispered, his voice trembling like a wounded animal.

Roy stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Then why were you at Fitzelgord? What was your part in the massacre?" The question struck hard, but the prisoner's reaction wasn't one of guilt. It was terror.

"I wasn't there!" he shouted, his voice raw. His head tilted back, eyes darting to the ceiling as though searching for an escape. "I told you—I'm innocent!"

From her position by the window, Nadia's smirk faded. Something was wrong. She had seen Roy dismantle even the most guarded minds, but now…

Her brother was stalling.

Roy's words came slower now, the edge in his voice dulling. "Why keep lying, Kael?" he pressed again, but it lacked his usual force. His eyes betrayed him, darting across the prisoner's face like a map he couldn't read.

The man slumped forward, tears mixing with sweat. He wasn't just crying—he was unraveling, shaking, caught in a torrent of emotions that seemed too raw to fabricate. And then his voice dropped, trembling yet unwavering:

"Because I'm not him."

Nadia blinked. For the first time, she noticed it too. Something intangible about the man felt off. The prisoner wasn't breaking down in the way a liar would. He wasn't collapsing under guilt or fear of exposure. It was different. Deeper.

Roy took another step back. He glanced at the observation window, locking eyes with Nadia. She saw it then—the smallest crack in his usually unyielding demeanor. The slightest flicker of hesitation.

And then it hit her: Roy Cortez—the master of uncovering truths, the legend who could stare into the abyss of another's soul—couldn't read this man.

"You're lying," Roy said, but the falter in his voice betrayed him.

The prisoner slowly raised his head, meeting Roy's gaze. For the first time in his career, Roy Cortez wasn't certain,For the first time, Roy Cortez was scared .

And neither was Nadia.

"Brother, what was all that?" Nadia asked as they left the interrogation room, her pace quickening to match Roy's. His face was a storm of frustration, his lips pressed into a hard line. He didn't reply.

"Roy," she prodded.

He suddenly stopped, his fist slamming against the wall with a thud. "He gave nothing," he muttered, his tone low and clipped.

"Gave nothing?" Nadia echoed, confused.

Roy turned sharply to face her, his voice rising. "NOTHING, NADIA. NOT THE SLIGHTEST TWITCH, NOT A SINGLE DILATION OF HIS PUPILS, NOTHING! Everything was too perfect—his fear, his crying, the way he shouted, *'I am not Kael!'—*too real." His voice cracked with agitation. "So real it's fake!"

"That doesn't make sense," Nadia retorted, her brows knitting together.

Roy took a deep breath, attempting to temper his frustration. "Nothing makes sense about this. His crying? That level of detail in his breakdown? You can't fake that without someone like me seeing through it," he said, almost to himself. "Which means… if that man is Kael, then his emotional control is beyond anything human."

"Akin to… a god?" Nadia said, hesitantly completing his thought.

Roy's hands trembled as he nodded, the implication making his voice drop. "Exactly. And that's why I think we've got the wrong man."

"What do you mean, the wrong man?" barked a large, round figure who stepped into the hallway, his authoritative presence impossible to ignore. Chief Lorcan tapped his cane on the tile floor as he fixed Roy with a hard stare.

Roy squared his shoulders, his frustration now focused. "Chief, we need to reassess him. Redo everything—credentials, information, biometrics. Run every single test again."

Lorcan sighed, his thick fingers gripping the cane tightly. "Roy, you're letting paranoia get to you. He's Kael. You've seen the evidence. Fingerprints. Site data. Garibaldi himself confirmed it!"

"Chief," Roy said, his voice firm, "do you really think someone capable of erasing every microexpression, someone with the kind of emotional discipline we're talking about here, wouldn't know how to fake fingerprints?"

Lorcan paused, his eyes narrowing as the room filled with an uncomfortable silence.

"If you're right…" Lorcan muttered, pacing in a tight circle before finally looking Roy in the eyes. "...then Kael's operating on a level we've never seen before. But for now, all we have is what's in front of us."

"And what's in front of us," Roy shot back, "is something that isn't adding up. You're the Chief—you've built your reputation on not taking things at face value. Prove that's still true."

Lorcan studied him for a long moment, his face betraying nothing. Then, with a resigned sigh, he said, "Fine. We'll conduct a re-investigation. But understand this, Roy—I'm only allowing this because of your track record. If this wild goose chase leads nowhere, it's on you."

Roy nodded sharply. "Understood."

Lorcan turned and began walking down the corridor, his voice echoing behind him. "When impossible stops… Kael's possible starts. Remember that."

Roy's fists tightened. Nadia, watching him closely, noticed the crack in his armor deepen ever so slightly. This wasn't a chase anymore—it was turning into something else entirely. Something Roy wasn't sure he could solve.

__________________________________________________

"It's been weeks," muttered the cafeteria head, his voice filled with concern. "All he's had is a couple of salads and some water. How much longer do you think he'll last?"

The prison guard leaned against the counter, his gaze cast toward the observation screen displaying the lone prisoner in his cell. "Yeah, we reported it. The higher-ups are aware."

"And the Warden?" the cafeteria head asked, his voice lowered. "She isn't… forcing herself on him? The guy's a handsome little fellow after all."

The guard frowned, his face twisting in discomfort. "No. Nadia-san tries to keep her distance from him. She barely even looks his way."

Inside the cell, the prisoner—a man beaten down by fatigue, hunger, and despair—shifted weakly on the cold steel bench. His hollow eyes fixed on the two talking outside the monitor's view. His lips moved, barely audible. "Why?"

Before the words could settle in the air, his body slumped, and he hit the floor with a thud.

"Dammit!" yelled the guard, his professionalism snapping under the moment's weight. He rushed forward, slamming an emergency button on the wall. "DOCTOR! MEDICS! NOW!"

From the observation balcony above, Nadia Cortez watched the scene unfold below. Her sharp eyes, hardened by years of cold practicality, softened for the briefest of moments. Her thoughts swirled like a storm.

'He's innocent,' she thought, biting her lower lip. Her instincts—honed through countless interrogations—weren't easily ignored.

Rumors among the staff and even whispered confessions from the military units were consistent. 'He screamed he was framed… over and over,' her mind repeated. Her jaw clenched. Doubt wasn't just creeping in anymore—it had taken root.

The sound of hurried footsteps interrupted her spiraling thoughts. She turned to see a familiar figure approaching—George, his disheveled form contrasting his usually composed demeanor.

"George," Nadia muttered, a small flicker of relief in her eyes.

"Nadia," he said, slightly out of breath. "They're moving forward with it."

"'It?'" she asked, her brow arching.

"The hearing," George clarified, his expression grim. "They've set a time. It's happening soon."

Her heart sank slightly, though she masked it with her usual stoic air. "I know," she replied, her tone detached, even as her thoughts raced ahead.

She turned her gaze back to the prisoner on the screen. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides, but her face remained unreadable. Inside her, though, one thought echoed louder than any other:

'If he's guilty, then why does this all feel so wrong?'

____________________________________________________________

The courtroom was a crucible of tension, thick with the weight of suspicion and the air heavy with quiet judgment. At the bench sat the judge, his penetrating gaze shifting between Garibaldi's side and the defense table. Spycraft agents filled the seats behind the prosecution, their collective silence charged with a grim determination. At the defense table, "Karvel Ispa" sat poised, his demeanor betraying neither fear nor defiance.

"Bring in the accused," the judge commanded, his gravelly voice reverberating through the chamber.

The doors creaked open, and "Kael" walked in, escorted by armed guards. His steps were measured, deliberate. The room seemed to shrink in his presence. He looked every inch the victim of an overreaching government: tired but resolute. His gaze briefly locked onto Garibaldi, a flicker of loathing buried in layers of practiced innocence.

Garibaldi didn't blink. His sharp mind cataloged every nuance—the man's gait, the rhythm of his breathing, the slight downturn of his mouth. Everything was intentional. Garibaldi's instincts screamed that this was Kael, the ghost of Fitzelgord, the mind that evaded every trap.

"So begins the hearing," the judge declared.

Kael's lawyer, a woman of sharp intellect and icy precision, strode to the center of the courtroom. "Your Honor, I will demonstrate beyond doubt that my client is an innocent man—Karvel Ispa, a simple civilian caught in the web of circumstantial evidence and overzealous prosecution."

She presented a stack of meticulously organized documents: citizenship papers, employment records, tax returns, and an ironclad history of residency. "Every record, Your Honor, corroborates Mr. Ispa's identity. He has no criminal history, no ties to any alias. Karvel Ispa is, by every metric, an upstanding citizen."

As the documents were passed around, murmurs rippled through the courtroom. Garibaldi's face remained impassive, but his jaw tightened imperceptibly. He knew the game—this wasn't just a defense; this was a symphony, and Kael was the conductor.

Garibaldi rose from his seat, his presence commanding the room.

"This man," he began, his voice steady but charged, "is no ordinary citizen. He is Kael, the most dangerous mind alive. Do not underestimate him."

The room tensed. All eyes were on Garibaldi as he continued.

"I have tracked him across continents. This man," Garibaldi gestured sharply toward Kael, "is capable of manipulation so profound, he can make the impossible seem believable."

Despite the mounting pressure, "Karvel Ispa" remained calm. He maintained an expression of quiet innocence, occasionally nodding sympathetically as if enduring an unjust attack.

The lawyer frowned but said nothing.

"Tell me, 'Mr. Ispa,'" Garibaldi continued, turning toward Kael. His voice sharpened. "How do you explain the fact that your fingerprints match those found at the Fitzelgord site?"

Kael rose smoothly, every movement exuding calm control. "Agent Garibaldi," he began, his voice soft but resonant, "you accuse me of a crime I did not commit. Those fingerprints—could they not have been planted? Would you stake your life on the integrity of the evidence in this case?"

A ripple of gasps followed. Kael turned to face the judge.

"I must confess something," Kael said, his tone faltering just enough to suggest vulnerability. "Five years ago, I did encounter Kael. He ruined my life."

Gasps rippled through the room.

Kael's words were masterfully paced, weaving a narrative laced with fear and reluctant courage. "I worked as a security guard in a small bank," he said, his voice trembling. "Kael broke in. He was like a ghost—calm, precise, unrelenting. He didn't just steal money. He stole my sense of safety, my humanity."

Kael's eyes welled with tears. "That night, he threatened me. I ran. I abandoned my post, my coworkers. Because of my cowardice, good people died."

He lowered his head, his shoulders shaking. His lawyer stepped forward, but Kael raised a hand to stop her. "No," he said, his voice cracking. "Let me finish. I live with this shame every day. I should have stood my ground, but I failed."

Even Garibaldi's team faltered. The room had shifted—Kael's tears, his trembling voice, the raw authenticity of his delivery—all of it painted a picture of a broken man, haunted by his past.

But Garibaldi's mind worked furiously. He dissected every word, every twitch. And that was when it hit him: it was too perfect. The timing, the emotional cadence—Kael was acting on a level beyond mastery.

"Your Honor!" Garibaldi barked, snapping the room from its trance. "Do not fall for this theater. This man is a fraud, and everything he says is calculated."

The judge frowned but gestured for Garibaldi to continue.

"Tell me, Kael—or 'Karvel,'" he said, his tone biting. "What was the name of the branch manager that night? If you were there, if you witnessed such horrors, surely you would remember."

Kael hesitated. It was so subtle that only Garibaldi noticed—the tiniest shift in his gaze. Then, Kael recovered.

"Mr. Erikson," Kael replied, his voice even, his eyes steady. "He was the first to fall. I'll never forget the sound... the way he—" Kael's voice cracked, tears flowing again.

It was flawless—almost.

Garibaldi approached the judge, his tone measured but urgent. "Your Honor, I demand a reassessment of the evidence. The man sitting here—"

_____________________________________________________________________

"Enough," the judge interrupted, his gavel striking the sound block with finality. "Agent Garibaldi, you have provided no proof beyond your instincts. The evidence presented by the defense is indisputable. Karvel Ispa is free to go. Case dismissed." 

The courtroom buzzed with murmurs, a mix of disbelief and satisfaction rippling through the onlookers. Garibaldi stood rooted in place, his jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder he didn't shatter his teeth. He could feel the weight of a hundred eyes on him—colleagues, civilians, the judge—all watching him fall. 

Kael—or rather, "Karvel"—stood slowly, his movements composed. He adjusted his cuffs with a casual elegance, as if donning an invisible crown. He turned to face the courtroom, his expression serene, almost beatific, and offered a slight bow to the judge. The courtroom guards approached to escort him out, but the judge raised a hand. 

"Agent Garibaldi," the judge commanded, "as you were the one to press this matter so vehemently, I believe it fitting you ensure Mr. Ispa's safe departure. Let him go with the same dignity you sought to deny him." 

The words hit Garibaldi harder than any punch. His grip tightened around the back of the chair in front of him, but he knew better than to resist. With a curt nod, he stepped forward. 

---

Garibaldi followed Kael out of the courtroom, the buzz of the crowd fading into the echoing silence of the hallways. The tension between the two men was palpable, a taut string ready to snap. 

Kael glanced around as they walked, his eyes drinking in the sterile fluorescent lighting and polished floors. He smiled, small and quiet at first, then a touch broader—a private satisfaction he couldn't entirely mask. 

As they neared the exit, Kael leaned slightly toward Garibaldi. His voice was low, smooth as silk but threaded with unmistakable mockery. "I didn't expect it to be so serene," he murmured, as if talking to himself. Then, with a chuckle just loud enough to pierce Garibaldi's simmering anger, he added, "Heh, shoe sucker." 

Garibaldi froze mid-step, his expression betraying a flicker of shock before hardening into a mask of stone. It was unmistakable. The phrase—"shoe sucker"—had been Kael's personal signature, a taunting one for Garibaldi.

---

Kael turned back to him with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I've got my revenge from the ship Shoe sucker, You're a man so driven by justice you'd sacrifice your career just to follow your gut." 

For a moment, there was silence. Then Kael tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating a sculpture. "You acted on instinct—on justice. I commend that, really. The world needs more men like you." 

The words were as sweet as honey, but the undertone—the mocking lilt, the way his grin widened a fraction too far—gnawed at Garibaldi's nerves. 

---

Garibaldi finally broke the silence. "I don't know who you think you're fooling, but this isn't over. One mistake—that's all you'll need to make." 

Kael, already being ushered out by guards, threw one last glance over his shoulder. His smile remained, but now his eyes carried a glint of something darker. "And one weakness—that's all you need, Agent." 

The door shut behind Kael, leaving Garibaldi standing alone in the hallway, the cold realization sinking in. He wasn't sure if he'd just watched justice fail or if it had never truly existed at all.