This is one of those moments every journalist dreams of capturing in history.
The tension is thick—impossible to describe but unmistakable in the air. Even with the air conditioner humming, people are sweating. The courtroom is packed with journalists, judges, advocates—yet the silence is so complete, you can almost hear a heartbeat.
Of course, you can hear a heartbeat. Because today's case involves one of the country's most feared Mafia families—powerful for decades, now too old to be called "Mafia," yet still ruling the market from the shadows.
But today's hearing isn't only about their survival. It's about the legacy of their oldest friend and advocate, Augustus Finn.
Finn is old now, just like his empire—Augustus Finn Crown, one of the richest, undefeated law firms in the country. They've won so consistently that people forgot what their defeat might even look like.
Until today.
For the first time in the firm's history, the Crown is cornered. The stakes are so high that Finn himself has appeared in court after years. Rivals sit in the gallery, ready to witness what could be the firm's downfall.
And yet—Augustus Finn sits completely calm.
Some whisper it's experience. Others say it's faith. Nobody knows.
But someone else is calm too.
The client whose fate is being decided isn't even in court. He is overseas, sitting on his balcony, sipping green tea while his personal assistant holds the phone to stream the proceedings—even though the PA has no idea why the boss is so confident in such a dying case.
Suddenly, a disturbance shakes the courtroom.
The PA panics, "What happened? What's going on?"
On the call, the client notices a small smile curling on his lips.
Inside the court, Finn's team hands a set of documents to the bench. Whispers explode. The judge bangs the gavel, demanding silence.
When the crowd settles, the courtroom doors open.
A man enters—high-class boots, light blue suit, trimmed beard, fair skin, an expensive watch catching the light. Heads turn. Cameras click.
A new advocate has taken over the case.
Adrian L. Crown.
The opposition immediately objects. Of course they do.
Adrian steps forward, adjusting his cuff with practiced elegance.
"There are certain facts that still need discussion," he says coolly. "I promise I will change the entire prospect of this case."
He meets the judge's eyes with steady confidence.
People murmur—he looks far too young to handle a case that could topple an empire. Some whisper Finn has finally made a mistake.
The judge adjusts her glasses.
"Mr. Crown, the court has accepted your entry. Proceed. But let me remind you—the case is nearly concluded. Your window is narrow."
Adrian walks to the centre with controlled precision.
"Thank you, Your Honor. I'm aware," he says calmly. "Which is why I won't waste the court's time."
He places a thin blue folder on the podium.
Too thin. People frown. There is no way that small file could overturn a case of this magnitude.
Mr. Khan scoffs, "Theatrics, Your Honor. Nothing more."
Adrian doesn't look at him.
"Exhibit 49," he announces. "A document that was never produced during discovery."
Gasps ripple through the courtroom.
The judge leans forward. "Explain."
Adrian taps the top page once.
"This is a concealed land-transfer agreement between the City Development Board and Haverstone Group—an entity secretly controlled by the Varma Syndicate."
A murmur spreads.
Varma Syndicate. The old Mafia family.
"For weeks," Adrian continues, "the prosecution has accused CASKA of illegally occupying the land that is now under dispute. They insist CASKA forged ownership to keep the land for commercial benefit."
The room goes still.
"But this document proves something else entirely."
He turns the page.
"Ten years ago, CASKA legally leased that land to the Heritage Trust to preserve one of the oldest community spaces in the district—the Garden Café and Retreat."
He pauses. "A place my mother took me to every Sunday."
A softness flickers through his voice, barely noticeable, but real.
"That café was meant to remain a protected cultural zone. CASKA invested in its restoration. The land was not meant for malls, casinos, or luxury towers."
He lifts the agreement.
"But Haverstone Group paid the Development Board under the table to override the preservation lease and claim the land as 'unused.' They did this to seize the property for commercial expansion."
Shock detonates across the courtroom.
Mr. Khan slams his hand on the table.
"Lies! There is no proof this agreement is real!"
Adrian raises a finger.
"I anticipated that objection."
He produces another sheet.
"This is the Board's internal memo. It explicitly states that the Heritage Trust's lease was intentionally hidden because the Varma Syndicate wanted the location cleared."
More gasps.
He pulls out another page.
"And this is the signed statement from the former Board secretary… admitting she received monthly payments to ensure the Trust's documents never reached the court."
The courtroom erupts.
Mr. Khan sputters, "Your Honor—this is outrageous! Why wasn't this documentation presented earlier?"
Adrian finally turns toward him—cold, sharp, merciless.
"Because your side suppressed it."
Khan's face floods with panic.
Adrian steps closer to the bench.
"This folder contains the truth:
CASKA did not steal land.
They protected it.
The ones responsible for corruption and concealment are the Development Board, Haverstone Group… and the Varma Syndicate who funded the acquisition."
He meets Khan's eyes.
"A syndicate represented by the prosecution's own law firm."
A bomb explodes in the courtroom.
Khan springs up—"SLANDER!"
Adrian responds with a single word, crisp as a blade:
"Evidence."
"Mr. Khan, SIT DOWN," the judge commands.
He collapses into his seat.
Adrian's voice is steady, lethal.
"I move for immediate dismissal of all charges against CASKA. And I request criminal proceedings against the Development Board, Haverstone Group, and any counsel involved in suppressing evidence."
The judge sifts through the documents.
Minutes stretch like hours.
Finally—
"Mr. Crown," she says slowly, "everything here is properly stamped, verified, and legally admissible."
Mr. Khan visibly deflates.
"In light of this evidence, the court finds CASKA not guilty on all charges."
She adds firmly, "Criminal proceedings against Haverstone Group and associated parties will begin immediately."
Silence.
Then the room explodes—cameras flashing, reporters scrambling, whispers crashing like waves.
But Adrian doesn't react.
He closes the folder with quiet finality, bows to the judge, and walks out as if he predicted every beat of the outcome.
A winner.
A Crown.
The client overseas finally takes the phone.
"Congratulations," he says. "You successfully launched your son to protect your legacy.
But was this gamble worth risking your firm?"
Finn replies softly, "My son is back. That's all I wanted."
"Then why hold this card until the last moment?"
A sudden scream echoes from the public washroom.
People rush toward the noise. Adrian steps out calmly, fixing his sleeves.
"Some idiot slipped on the wet floor," he says, walking away.
Inside, Mr. Khan lies on the tiles, groaning in pain.
Finn, still on the call, says quietly, "That's the reason."
Inside the car, Adrian waits for the inevitable lecture.
What have you done? That was reckless. You could have ruined our image…
But Finn says only:
"You did great, son."
Adrian turns, stunned. Praise feels foreign.
"Thank you… but aren't you going to ask what happened? You know I caused a scene."
"He touched your butt," Finn replies calmly. "So you broke his hand."
Adrian stiffens. "How did you—"
"His wet hand was on you as you came out," Finn says. "A father knows the difference between a slip and a strike."
For a moment, Adrian almost smiles.
But resentment tightens around him again.
"So you're finally starting to understand me?
Or is this just a performance for your new winning advocate?"
Finn flinches, but holds steady.
"I'm trying to fix my mistakes, Adrian."
Adrian rolls his eyes, hiding the wound beneath.
Finn's voice softens. "I know you're not here for me. You're here to save the name I failed to protect."
The car stops. Finn gestures toward the cemetery.
Adrian walks alone to his mother's grave.
"Hey, Mom," he whispers. "It's been a long time."
He forces a smile.
"You must still be mad at me for a lot of things."
His voice cracks.
"But I won my first case today. And guess what?
It was CASKA's. We used to go there when I was a kid… those were the only good memories I had.
I saved it, Mom."
He drops to his knees, pressing his hand to the cold stone.
"I wish you were here," he breathes.
After a moment, he looks back at the car—at the father trying, far too late, to mend broken years.
Adrian shakes his head.
"I don't know why he's suddenly trying to be supportive," he says quietly.
A long, tired sigh escapes him.
"Who will tell him it's too late?
Adrian reached the old, vintage club—a place drenched in dim amber lights and jazz that drifted like smoke.
As always, he caught every eye in the room, whether it belonged to a man or a woman. He didn't need to try; beauty followed him like a shadow. People watched him the way they watched a painting they could never afford to touch.
He headed straight for the bar.
"Can you call Mr. Rexxi?" Adrian asked, sliding his fingers across the polished counter.
The bartender blinked. "Who?"
Before Adrian could answer, a voice boomed from behind him—warm, loud, annoyingly enthusiastic.
"I knew it! I thought I'd never see you here again!"
Adrian turned, and for the first time all day, a real smile tugged at his lips.
"Me neither," he said softly.
Rexxi stood there—older, rounder, wrapped in a coat that didn't fit as well as it used to. His hairline had retreated, his belly stretched his belt, but his eyes were the same. Bright. Kind. Familiar.
Adrian's only friend from school.
Rexxi moved in for a hug—instinctive, full of old affection—but Adrian's hand shot up, stopping him mid-motion. A small tremor ran through Adrian's fingers.
Rexxi froze, then laughed gently, lifting both hands.
"Still hate physical touch. Noted."
Adrian exhaled, almost laughing.
"You haven't changed," he murmured.
Rexxi grinned. "Not at all."
Then his smile softened as he looked closer.
"You're tired. Long day?"
Adrian didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Rexxi guided him to a private booth—somewhere quiet, away from the stares and the smoke. Once they sat, Adrian whispered, "Did you find him?"
Rexxi winced.
"Come on, man… you know it's not an easy task. Give me more time."
Adrian placed his glass on the table without taking a sip. He knew Rexxi was right, but frustration burned behind his ribs.
"Do it fast," he said quietly. "I want to leave this place again."
Rexxi groaned. "No, man, don't say that. Wait. After all—you have family here. How are they? I read the news about your dad."
He pushed Adrian's untouched glass toward him.
"And what about your uncle?"
The moment he mentioned uncle, the air shifted.
Adrian's jaw tightened. His fingers slowly curled around the glass—until it crunched. Tiny shards glittered in his palm, blood beading against the cracks.
"I'm done for today," Adrian said, rising to his feet and buttoning his coat with cold precision.
Rexxi stood up, startled. "Hey—Adrian—I'm sorry, I didn't know—"
Adrian forced a small smile, the kind that hid more than it showed.
"Let me know if you find anything."
He turned and walked out, leaving Rexxi frozen—unsure what he'd done wrong, yet hoping Adrian's familiar, wounded behaviour meant at least one thing:
He hadn't lost his friend completely.
He was driving toward home, the night air rushing through the half-open window, cooling the bruises forming beneath his shirt. One hand rested on the steering wheel, the other combed through his hair—a small attempt to calm a day soaked in chaos.
He felt guilty about snapping at Rexxi.
It wasn't his fault, Adrian thought. His temper had always been a blade—too sharp, too fast. He exhaled, trying to steady himself.
That's when he noticed it.
A black car in his rearview mirror.
The same one he saw outside the club.
His instincts—those razor-sharp instincts—flared red.
He pressed the accelerator.
The car behind him sped up.
A chase.
His jaw locked. He took a dangerous turn into a narrow lane—too sharp for most drivers, but not for him. Tires screeched, his heart pounded, and when he slid into an empty parking structure, hiding behind a pillar, the pursuing car roared past.
A smirk tugged at Adrian's lips.
Not smart enough.
He exited the parking lot from the back and returned to the open road.
But fate wasn't done.
Two different cars slid across the road and blocked his path.
Another car stopped behind him.
He whispered to the empty night, "Come on, man… I'm not in the mood."
But in his mind, he already knew:
He might die tonight.
Adrian stepped out.
Ten men surrounded him in seconds.
The first one who touched him got his wrist snapped backward.
The second—Adrian's kick crushed his knee out of alignment.
But ten was too many.
Adrian tried to fight, he really did.
But exhaustion had already eaten through his muscles, and there were too many of them.
One man locked Adrian's arms from behind, twisting them painfully.
Another stepped in front of him and slammed a hard punch into his stomach.
Air burst out of Adrian's lungs—pain sharp, blinding.
But even then, even with blood gathering at his lip, he lifted his head and forced a crooked grin.
"At least…" he coughed, breath shaking, "…tell me who sent you."
They laughed—mocking, amused.
"Look at him," one jeered. "Trying to act tough when he's already broken."
Another punch landed. Adrian's knees buckled, but the man behind him held him upright like a ragdoll.
"We don't know who sent us," the leader said, wiping sweat from his brow.
"But we know one thing—
you aren't walking away tonight."
Another blow slammed against Adrian's jaw—
And then everything stopped.
A distant engine.
A roar slicing through the night.
The same black car he had seen earlier.
It shot toward them like a bullet, smashing into the attackers' first vehicle and flipping it onto its side.
The attackers froze, eyes wide.
A man stepped out of the car.
Huge.
Built like a soldier—broad chest, thick arms, black tight t-shirt stretched across muscle.
His face held no expression, only a deadly calm.
He didn't speak.
Not one word.
He simply moved.
Fast. Precise. Violent.
He ripped the attacker off Adrian's back and threw him aside as if he weighed nothing.
He hit another man so hard he flew across the pavement.
His movements were terrifyingly efficient—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
Within minutes, ten men who moments ago were laughing—
were lying unconscious on the ground.
Adrian, barely conscious himself, sank toward the pavement.
His vision swam, colours bleeding together.
The man caught him before he fell—one strong arm behind Adrian's back, the other supporting his head gently.
Adrian's forehead rested against the stranger's shoulder, breath unsteady.
"Who… are you?" Adrian whispered, voice cracking.
The man didn't answer.
He simply tightened his hold, guiding Adrian's head to rest safely against him.
Silent.
Steady.
Protective.
Adrian's blurry eyes lifted for one final second—catching the man's jawline, the scar near his neck, the intense eyes that held no malice, only concern.
Then everything went dark.