Micah stood alone in the stark briefing room of CID Headquarters, the file still in his hand, the thin manila folder already telling him more than most reports ever did. His jaw was clenched, voice low and sharp as he hit call.
Ring. Connect.
He didn't wait for greetings.
"I'm going to need a taskforce. Handpicked. No interference from local authorities. I want eyes, tech, financial analysts, and two field agents I trust flown in."
He paced slowly across the room, voice steady, not rushed, just commanding.
"This isn't a courtesy update. This is me telling you what happens next. You called me. That means you knew it was beyond your reach."
Pause. Listening. He cut them off.
"No. I don't want local bureaucrats. I want ghost clearance. Whoever this Bruce lawyer is, he's built something… delicate. I don't need politics slowing me down while I dismantle it. Don't slow me down, remember Bruce is just a suspect, we don't even know if he knows the big guy, we don't want to waste our time on him besides he knows the law and he may sue you if we don't connect him to anything. So your government mustn't make a move, let me do my thing. He can't touch me legally, so my presence forces him to resort to what he'd do without the law to help him."
He stopped by the window, watching the sun bleed behind the skyline.
*"You wanted justice. You got me. So don't micromanage now. I came to finish this."*
Pause. A slight smirk.
"Tell the commissioner, tell your minister—I'm not asking for permission. I've arrived. I'm staying. And by the time I'm done, either the city will remember what justice is… or it will burn trying."
He hung up.
---------------
The conference room at the firm was silent—ten interns seated around the polished mahogany table, legal pads open, pens poised, eyes fixed on the man at the head of the table.
Micah, dressed in a crisp white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, leaned against the table's edge. His presence was quiet but intense—there was no need to raise his voice.
"Let's talk about Moyo," he began, flipping a thin case file onto the table. "It wasn't the lack of evidence that won it. It was the misdirection of it."
A few hands scribbled; others watched, waiting.
"Rule one—the absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence. Prosecutors focused too hard on the lack of an alibi. What they should've focused on was motive. But they overplayed their hand with the divorce narrative. Weak emotional logic."
He walked slowly behind the seated interns, tapping one lightly on the shoulder.
"Tell me—do you stab someone in the kitchen, call for help, then apply pressure to the wound… just to frame yourself? It doesn't add up. That's what I forced the jury to realize."
He stopped again. "Now… the knife. Yes, his fingerprints were on it. But context matters. No prints on the handle's underside. Just above. Means he pulled it out, not stabbed. The prosecution buried that detail in a footnote."
One intern raised a hand. "But wasn't it suspicious? No witnesses, no alibi, and the divorce timing—"
"Everything can look suspicious if you paint it right," Micah replied smoothly. "That's why courtroom law isn't about truth. It's about narrative control."
He turned back to the board and wrote two words in clean block letters: ReasonableDoubt.
"Moyo didn't win because he was innocent. He won because I made innocence plausible. Don't mistake courtroom victory for justice. In law, perception is the sharpest weapon."
The room remained silent as Bruce Turner gathered his file.
He paused at the door and looked back.
"One more thing—if you want to master this field, don't ask, 'Did they do it?' Ask, 'Can you prove it—without a shadow?'"
He left them with that, a courtroom magician pulling back the curtain—just for a moment. He left for his office.
The phone on his desk vibrated—once. A single buzz. A signal.
He pressed the receiver.
"Talk."
A pause. Then a calm, sharp voice from the other end: someone from high up—untouchable, the kind of person even Bruce picked his words with.
Voice:"We have a situation."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I don't like those."
Voice: "A task force is being formed under external directive. Not local. Not regional. International."
Bruce's jaw clenched slightly. "Interpol?"
Voice: "Worse. Berlin Intelligence Initiative. They've sent Micah."
Silence.
Bruce walked slowly to the window, gazing out at the distant skyline. "Micah," he said softly, as if tasting the name. "That's the one from the Oren Cartel collapse?"
Voice: "The same. 26. No red flags. No ego. Just results. He's calling the shots already. And he's not requesting clearance. He's demanding it."
Bruce swirled his glass, calm masking calculation. "What does he want?"
Voice: "Full access. Direct oversight. His own unit. No interference. Said, and I quote,
'You called me to clean up. Don't complain when I start with the roots.'
He wants files, intelligence feeds, and diplomatic immunity. He's not here for a tour, Bruce. He's here to stay."
A beat passed.
Bruce let out a low, amused exhale. "Then let's welcome him properly… Make sure his room has a view of the war he's walked into."
Voice: "Do not underestimate him."
"I don't underestimate. I outmaneuver," Bruce replied coldly.
As the line cut, Bruce stood still for a moment, then whispered to himself:
"Let's see if the boy knows the weight of the empire he's come to destroy. I thought the brief from yesterday was wrong, well when a third person warns me, I'll start defending"