CITY COURTROOM.
Monday, 11 am.
The courtroom smelled like old wood, coffee, and nerves.
Tim Delaney adjusted his tie for the fifth time, not because it needed adjusting—but because it gave his hands something to do. Across the aisle, Charles Pritchard was smirking again, all smug teeth and pinstripe arrogance, like a shark in litigation form. Tim had studied men like Pritchard. He knew the type. They won cases not with facts, but with force—bluster, presence, and the weight of reputation.
Tim? He had none of that. No legacy. No family crest on the office wall. Just... facts. And a voice he was still learning how to use.
The courtroom settled. Judge Marlowe peered over her glasses, half-bored, half-expecting something to break the monotony.
Tim stood. His chair creaked. He exhaled slowly.
Alright, Delaney. Showtime.
He stepped into the open floor, the room's silence now heavy, pressing on him from all sides. Every eye in the gallery turned to him, waiting. Pritchard folded his arms.
"Your Honor," Tim began, his voice clear and measured. "Mr. Pritchard has painted this case as an unfortunate misunderstanding. A bump in the road. But let's not kid ourselves—a family was wrecked, lives were altered, and someone—maybe more than just someone—made money off of that wreckage."
Tim moved towards the jury, his pace slow and deliberate.
"Now, I'm no corporate titan. I don't have three assistants or a weekend home in the Hamptons. I do, however, have this."
He held up a thin file, weathered at the edges from overuse. "It's not glamorous. It's not flashy. It's just… the truth. Compiled with coffee, sleepless nights, and a borderline unhealthy obsession with Excel spreadsheets."
The jury chuckled. Even Judge Marlowe's brow twitched upward.
Tim continued, gesturing to the monitor.
"Exhibit B. Mrs. Felder was prescribed Zelafrine on April 3rd. By April 10th, she was in the ER with seizures. Here's the kicker—the company knew this might happen. Their own internal report flagged this exact side effect. But rather than warn doctors, rather than pull the drug…"
Tim turned sharply to the defense table.
"…Cetus Pharmaceuticals increased their advertising budget by 2 million."
Breathe. Keep control.
Tim walked to the evidence screen, tapping to bring up an email.
"Now, let me read you a message sent from the Chief of Research at Cetus—quote: 'We can't pull Zelafrine. That'll tank Q2. Bury the report and pray no one notices.'"
Gasps rippled through the courtroom. Tim didn't smile. He didn't need to.
"Ladies and gentlemen, coincidences don't write emails. People do. People who made a choice—and today, we make ours."
He paused, letting the silence speak.
"Let's show them that lives matter more than balance sheets. That gambling with people's health has consequences. Let's make sure they lose more than profits today. Let's make sure they lose their silence."
Tim returned to his seat. A heartbeat of silence passed. Then the gallery stirred, a murmur swelling into light applause before Judge Marlowe banged her gavel with reluctant firmness.
"Order!" she said, though her eyes gleamed. "Mr. Delaney… very well played."
Outside the courtroom, the sun hit him like a punch. Tim squinted, stepped down the stone stairs of the courthouse, and loosened his tie.
You did it, he thought. You actually did it.
A voice cut through the air.
"Delaney!" It was a junior reporter with The Tribune, notebook in hand and fire in her eyes. "How's it feel taking down a corporate Goliath?"
Tim offered a tight smile. "I didn't take down Goliath. I tripped him. Hopefully the fall hurts."
"Quoting yourself for tomorrow's headline?"
"God, I hope not. That sounded better in my head."
He sidestepped reporters, ducking into a small alley behind the courthouse, away from the noise. He took out his phone and flicked through missed messages—none personal. Just work. Always work.
His apartment was quiet. His fridge was empty. His inbox, full. Again.
He stared at the sky for a long moment.
Victory feels… hollow.
"One down," he muttered to himself. "How many more to go?"
Tim unlocked the door to his apartment with a familiar motion, pushing it open with his shoulder before flicking on the lights. The space was neat, almost obsessively so. Minimalist furniture, clean lines, muted colors—black, grey, and deep blue. One wall was covered in framed art prints: Van Gogh's Wheatfield with Crows, Matisse's Icarus, and in the center, a vivid piece of abstract expressionism he'd done himself back in law school—swirls of red and gold and black, chaotic yet controlled.
He threw his jacket over the arm of the couch and paused.
Silence.
Tim exhaled and stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, listening to the city hum outside the window. Cars, sirens, life. All of it is out there. All of it passing by.
Another win, Delaney. Another day, another mask worn and removed.
He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a protein shake from the fridge—no real food in there, just cold functionality—and popped the cap. A few gulps later, he leaned against the counter and rubbed his face, his fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw before lingering on his mustache.
He maintained it meticulously. Trimmed every three days. Defined edges. It wasn't vanity—not entirely. First impressions mattered. In court, appearance was half the battle. The right suit, the right grooming, the right posture—people listened to a man who looked like he had it together.
And, he'd admit, the compliments didn't hurt. The mustache got noticed.
But even as he stared at his reflection in the kitchen window, he didn't see a man with it all together. He saw a boy who lost everything at ten. A boy separated from his sister and thrown into a system that didn't care who he was—just another name, another case file.
Eva. Her name felt like a stone in his chest.
He moved to the couch, falling into it with a sigh. His phone buzzed somewhere, probably a message from the firm—Khan and Thomas Attorney at Law—no rest for the wicked, or for the lonely.
He ignored it.
When he was ten, the accident took his parents. What followed was chaos. Foster home after foster home—some kind, some cruel, all of them temporary. He and Eva split up immediately. Best for the children, they said. He remembered Eva clinging to his shirt, sobbing, refusing to let go until a stranger pried her away. She was five.
That was the last time he saw her.
Tim's fingers curled into a fist.
He'd searched for years. When he was sixteen, he started digging through whatever records he could find. But he was just a kid with a laptop and too much determination. After law school, he'd tried again—with more resources, more experience, and still—nothing.
Just one lead: at thirteen, Eva had been placed in a foster home run by the Cetus Foundation. Since then? No trace. No records. No photos. No answers.
People don't just vanish. Not in a system with paperwork, protocols, and audits. Unless someone wanted her to vanish.
Tim stood and paced to the window, staring out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, Eva was—or had been. He didn't know which truth hurt more.
He flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders. Exercise helped when the thoughts got too loud. So did painting, but he hadn't touched a brush in months. Lately, his world was legal briefs and sleepless nights, the faint smell of coffee, and case files. He was good at it—damn good—but law was a means to an end. Every case, every win, every favor owed—it was all building towards one goal.
Finding Eva.
She's the only family I have left. I have to find her. Even if it means tearing down Cetus piece by piece.
Tim turned from the window. The clock blinked 11:47 PM. Another sleepless night ahead.
He walked to the corner of the room, pulled out a mat, and started stretching. Body sharp, mind sharper. There was no room for weakness.
Because tomorrow? He'd keep digging.
And soon—someone at Cetus was going to answer for what they'd done.
.
.
.
KHAN & THOMAS ATTORNEY AT LAW
Tuesday, 9:13 AM.
The hum of printers, the clack of keyboards, the faint buzz of bad office coffee—another day in the legal trenches.
Tim stepped out of the elevator, briefcase in hand, coffee in the other. His suit today was charcoal grey, crisp, and tailored, with just a hint of a pinstripe. He wore it like armor. The mustache was freshly trimmed. Per usual.
"Look who decided to grace us with his courtroom god complex," came a voice from down the hallway.
Tim didn't even flinch. Daniel "Danno" Ortega was leaning against the doorframe to the break room, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie undone, flashing his signature lazy grin. He was all charm, slick hair, and cologne—heavy on both.
"Morning, Danno. Did you sleep in any respectable beds last night or just the usual parade of regrets?" Tim shot back, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Danno winked at the nearest paralegal, who rolled her eyes and walked away. "But seriously, I heard you toasted Pritchard in court yesterday. Marlowe even clapped? Damn."
"She didn't clap." Tim smirked. "Her gavel just slipped."
From inside the break room, Maya Lin, their resident research wizard and unofficial queen of sarcasm, chimed in, "Slipped? I heard she almost stood up. Congratulations, Tim. You're officially a minor celebrity on Legal Twitter. Hashtag DelaneyDelivers."
"Great. My life goal achieved." Tim walked in and dropped his briefcase on the table. "Now I can retire and live off memes."
"I give you two weeks before you die of boredom," Maya said, tapping on her laptop.
Across the room, Anita Khan, co-founder of the firm and Tim's boss, strode in with the presence of someone used to being obeyed. Sleek black suit, heels clicking with precision. She glanced at the group.
"Alright, fun's over. We've got a new client meeting in thirty. And before anyone asks—yes, it's them."
Tim raised an eyebrow. "Them?"
Anita glanced at him. "Cetus Foundation. They're bringing in some paperwork for a merger we're consulting on. High-level stuff. Be polite."
The room went quiet for a moment.
Danno whistled. "Cetus? They're like… everywhere now. Pharmaceuticals, biotech, energy, AI… hell, I think they even bought a soccer team."
Maya shrugged. "When you're worth billions, what's one more continent to conquer?"
Tim frowned, stirring his coffee slowly.
"It's too fast," he murmured.
Anita looked over. "Problem, Delaney?"
Tim shook his head, but his voice was cool. "Just seems odd. A pharmaceutical company expanding into every sector like this. Buying up smaller companies, absorbing talent, flying under the radar. And now mergers? Doesn't sit right."
Danno leaned in, amused. "Not everything's a conspiracy, Sherlock. Maybe they're just really, really good at making money."
Tim didn't reply. He was staring into his coffee, thoughts spinning.
Eva. Cetus foster home. No records. Why would a pharmaceutical giant run a foster care facility? What did they want with her? And why the hell can't I find anything about it?
"You alright, man?" Danno asked, a rare moment of concern in his voice.
Tim looked up, blinking. "Yeah. Just… a lot on my mind."
Tim's desk was a mess of files, court transcripts, and coffee cups. The Cetus file sat at the center—thin, but unsettling. Mergers, research patents, offshore facilities. All legitimate. All scrubbed clean.
A knock.
Tim looked up. It was Harris, one of the firm's investigators. Older guy, ex-cop, zero patience.
"Delaney." Harris stepped inside and shut the door. "Got something you might want to see. It's about Cetus."
Tim sat up straight. "Go on."
Harris pulled a USB drive from his coat pocket and placed it on the desk.
"Anonymous tip. You said you were looking into them. This… might be noise. But I figured you'd want it."
Tim stared at the drive. Heart pounding. He picked it up slowly, feeling the weight of it.
"Thanks, Harris."
As the door closed, Tim turned to his computer. The screen glared back, blank and waiting.
What did they do to her? Why would a pharma conglomerate want a child?
He plugged in the drive.
Tomorrow night, he'd find out.
Even if he had to break into Cetus himself.