The cane went first. Tap. Tap. Tin walls. Fluorescent hum. The corridor opened into the market vein. Shuttered kiosks. Above them, a bronze motto: POLICY PROTECTS. The last P was chipped. Honesty or omen.

  Big Sponge, built like a yellow tugboat with a manbun, fed something from a paper cone to something else under his coat. He nodded like a boulder learning manners. Vegetable Blue stood under a dying sign, talking to the dead fern pinned to his lapel, dressed up as a Roman emperor.

  “Morning, Hugo,” Vegetable said, without looking. “There’s an 88% chance you will be killed via hanging or Baatar’s fists today. If that happens, I will avenge you, brother.”

  “Generous odds,” I said.

  I kept old-man pace; hurrying makes predators curious. The hallway tightened the way a dog scents. Footfalls that didn’t run.

  They arrived.

  Baatar made the corridor into clothing. Grey suit cut to cathedral muscle. Tie black, fitting for his growing status in Black Box. But under the smart guise, he smelt horribly of body odour.

  “Hugo Lawson,” he said.

  “That’d be me,” I answered, talented at obviousness when it’s unwise.

  “You have a hearing. Zero eight hundred. Policy Court.”

  “Worried I’d miss breakfast.” I offered a hand like a man who still believed in endings with handshakes.

  He took it. Colour leaked from the edges of sight. He let go just before I fainted, out of mercy or just sheer luck.

  “Strong grip,” I said through the white pulse behind my eyes.

  “Or you’re weak,” he said. He studied my face, then turned. “The law waits upstairs.”

  “And downstairs?”

  “Downstairs,” he said, “we practice.”

  “You are not above the law, and I am here to make sure of that! With the power of Emperor Justinian, I will free Arata Tanaka from this unreasonable detainment,” Vegetable shouted at Baatar’s back.

  He was off his meds again, confusing the Association with ancient Rome. I didn’t have the heart to correct him.

  The practice hand arrived on cue. No windup. A hinge did what a hinge was made to do.

  A cold gauntlet kissed my jaw. The floor rushed up. Ceiling blinked out. The cane did a last dot-dot-dot.

  I fell into it.

  I came back tasting nickels and the inside of churches. Jaw ached in three languages. A clerk with punctuation eyebrows crouched beside me. The word “fine” walked out of my mouth without permission.

  “Can you walk?” she asked.

  “Depends where.”

  She almost smiled, helping me up with care. Vegetable Blue was also sprawled on the floor like a spider after bug spray, so I called for the medics. He was meant to be my co-defence, though this was for the best.

  Two agents bracketed me like parentheses that didn’t touch. Even Takeshi came by. We stopped at lift doors stamped COURT.

  “Didn’t know we had a court.” Takeshi whistled. “I don’t think half the VIPs do, either. The precedent rulings total eight pages on an online document.”

  Above the numbers, a thin glass strip showed a live feed: a white bowl atrium under a ribbed dome. The image jittered, then stabilized. My knuckles tightened on the cane. Doors opened on the bowl.

  Light hit me first, flat and white off stone. Policy Court looked too new, like it had never been used. Seats too red to calm anyone down. The bench curved around the room like a ship’s rail, three metres up, with the witness stand hugging its side.

  Consoles to the left blinked steady blue. The VIP gallery to the right glittered gold.

  They parked me at defence, front row centre. My palm was damp on the cane handle. If I lost this, they executed Arata and the Association buried whatever happened in Finland for good.

  Something shifted in the doorway. The room leaned toward it. Kwon Hyo-do came in laughing.

  It was a breathy, delighted sound, like he already heard the punchline and we were all about to catch up. Striped, blue blazer, black scarf, sunglasses indoors. Wispy brown mullet brushing his collar. His nose arrived a heartbeat before the rest of him.

  He walked straight down the middle, and his entourage trailed behind.

  Baatar reached the defence rail and dropped into a full sumo bow, deeper than I’d ever seen him go. His hands pressed to the floor. His shoulders shook with the effort.

  Kwon lit up. “Ahh, look at THIS,” he said, clapping once. “Baatar, man, you’re killing me. So serious. So polite. That’s what I like.”

  He bent toward him, grinning wider. “Whole family’s like this, right? Bowing for the Association since forever. Makes me want to cry, for real.”

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  Baatar’s head stayed down a moment too long. When he straightened, his face was blank. I realized it then. Once, Black Box were enforcers, upholding the assassin code. Now, they were just tools.

  Dr Vainio came next. Bowler hat, black coat, cane ticking on stone. His skin looked like it had been folded and unfolded too many times. His smile was thin and private.

  I knew that hat. He hired me weeks ago, off-book, to pull security footage for a “missing asset”: Arata Tanaka. That was when I saw him hiding, and the Finland fragment.

  Vainio limping toward a jet under winter floodlights, coat flapping in the wind. The recording cut out in a sheet of white. When it came back, the Code had new amendments, whole sections blacked out, and people stopped saying certain words in corridors.

  Last came a monitor on wheels. The screen showed a small white worm in a black cap, bright cartoon eyes, pink nose. It blinked once, twice, then waved a little digital hand.

  “Let’s all have a wonderful hearing today,” the worm chirped in a soft, synthetic voice.

  Even Kwon’s grin checked itself, just for a beat. Mr Slithery. I had never seen him before. A wheeled monitor. A worm in a top hat. Smiling.

  I filed that away like a splinter.

  “Hugo Lawson,” Kwon sang. “So, this is you. This guy. Finally. The assassin with zero assassinations. Man, that’s hysterical. You’re like a collector who never opens the box.”

  “I like my boxes sealed,” I said. “Less mess.”

  He wheezed out another laugh, shoulders bobbing. “Good, good. You talk back. I was hoping. Sit tight, yeah? We’re gonna have a great time.” The smile twitched at the edges. “Just… don’t glare at me already. I’m being friendly here.”

  “You’re the judge,” I said. “I’m still adjusting.”

  “Heh.” He straightened his scarf. “More than judge, kind of. They’re grooming me, man! Next chairman, all that boring stuff.” He spread his hands. “Right in the middle of everything. Completely poised. Sounds cool, yeah?”

  On the monitor, the worm tilted, as if nodding along.

  Kwon leaned closer, lowering his voice for me alone. I could smell mint and expensive wine on his breath.

  “Anyway, Hugo, let’s be real. You didn’t walk in thinking this is one of those sweet little ‘innocent until proven’ deals, right?” He flicked his fingers at the room. “This isn’t justice. This is a chance for everybody to enjoy themselves. Me on the bench, you doing your lawyer thing, gallery getting a show. That’s what the Association pays for.”

  Dr Vainio’s eyes tracked every twitch. “When the head rolls,” he murmured, tone almost affectionate, “I’ll tend to the body.”

  Kwon laughed. “Doctor, you’re too much. Really.”

  Heat rose under my ribs. My grip tightened on the cane until the cane bit back.

  He felt it. He looked back at me, smile thinning. “There it is,” he said softly. “That hero look. You really came here to fix something, huh?”

  He nudged the stack of files on my table with a knuckle. “Even though half his charges are blacked out. Even though they won’t tell you what he did.”

  “They told me enough,” I said. “They told me they’re scared.”

  His brows lifted. Then he laughed again, louder, forcing the mood light. “Scared? C’mon, man. We’re the ones who should be scared. Your boy tried to leak us. If that went through, we’re all dead. Me, you, your little assassin friends up there.”

  He jerked his chin at the gallery. “You get that, right? He wasn’t just playing hero. He was aiming a gun at the whole Association.”

  “He pointed it at something,” I said. “He didn’t build it.”

  For a second his grin slipped, just a hair. Like I tugged on a wire he didn’t know was showing. Then it was back, oversized and bright.

  “Hyoh… hyohoho. Investigating me, is that it?” he said. “You? In my court?”

  He straightened, brushing invisible dust off his lapel. “Adorable. Seriously. I invite you to the table and you try to flip it. Classic Lawson move, I guess.”

  He turned away, voice jumping an octave as he addressed the room. “Alright, everyone! Thanks for waiting!” he called. “Defense is here, traitor’s here, VIPs are lookin’ gorgeous—” he threw the gallery a grin “—and your host today is feeling absolutely, totally, completely poised.”

  He spread his arms, soaking in the attention. “Let’s have a fantastic show.”

  Kwon Hyo-do, spoiled heir and maybe-chairman, climbed to the bench like he was taking his favourite seat at his favourite game.

  My pulse thumped in my ears. I set the cane down in front of me, tapped it once on the floor, and reminded myself why I was there.

  Expose the rot. Keep the boy alive. Drag Finland into the light, one question at a time.

  The side door opened. Arata shuffled in between handlers. He looked rough, to say the least. The plant grain at his wrists had darkened, climbing like ivy with a grudge. His eyes had the vacancy you get when pain evicts you for a while.

  He found me. For a quarter-second there was a person inside the boy—scared, stubborn, ridiculous enough to live.

  Then the handlers seated him, and the curtains closed.

  The clerk called the case. The charges lined up: trespass in restricted facility; unlawful broadcast; resisting apprehension; reckless endangerment; unlicensed manifestation. Pretty words with handcuffs attached.

  Baatar stood. Gravity kept him company. “Ready for the State, your Honor.”

  Kwon gestured like a magician inviting a card. “Let’s begin! Defence, how are you feeling?”

  I stood. Cane clicked once. A metronome for the room. “Ready. And grateful for the chance.”

  “Then let’s proceed,” Kwon said.

  Baatar didn’t look at his notes. He never needed to.

  “Arata Tanaka—unregistered individual, alias Unemployed Man—is charged with trespass, unlawful broadcast, endangerment, resistance to Black Box authority, and unlicensed manifestation of anomalous power. Violations of Articles Four, Five, and Ten.”

  “We acknowledge the words on the page,” I said. “Whether they apply is what we’re deciding.”

  A ripple crossed the gallery. The Code is scripture here; questioning scope smells like incense and burning. Baatar’s chrome glinted.

  “You intend to dispute the Code?”

  “No. Just its jurisdiction. My client never took the Oath. No implant. No registration. By Article One, sections one through three, he is not bound by the Code. He is an outsider.”

  A small chuckle from the cheap seats, sounded like Big Sponge. Good.

  Kwon steepled his fingers. “So, your angle is that this would be civil trespass?”

  “If you want poetry, call it curiosity taken too far,” I said. “But the Code doesn’t execute curiosity. That isn’t law. That’s sport.”

  “Sentimental,” Baatar said.

  “No,” I said. “Just keeping to the facts, mate.”

  Baatar gestured; an officer testified. Coordinates, timestamps, a chase. Arata’s “glowing hand.” The room shifted. Anomalous power makes killers religious.

  Cross was simple.

  “Facility open to the public?”

  “No.”

  “Identified yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “He ran?”

  “Yes.”

  “Armed?”

  “No.”

  “So: armed agents shouted at an unarmed, unregistered civilian who panicked. You filed ‘assault’ under Association policy. A policy for assassins. Not for lost kids with bad timing. Thank you.”

  Kwon whistled. “Pahahahahaha! He owned you, Baatar! I could watch this all day.” He meant it.

  They called a five-minute recess.

  I took the stairs to the basement. The air grew heavier as I descended, the polished scent of the courtroom replaced by the copper tang of old rust and despair. The hum of the ventilation system was louder down here, covering the sounds of misery behind the doors.

  Arata was in the holding cell, frozen like he was planted, tracing roots only he could see. In the same cell, he was with high-class criminals; The Mole, Phil L’estrade and Flying Jabari. I bet Kwon was hoping he’d have been knocked off, but Arata was surviving.

  “You’re doing fine kid, just hang in there,” I told him.

  “You’re the only one who thinks that.”

  “Then we’re a majority.” The cane rested across my knees. Tap. Tap.

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