The door to Daniel's chambers clicked shut, sealing him in a bubble of quiet wood and paper. The lingering energy of the courtroom—the shock, the confusion, the dawning fury from the prosecution's table—was cut off.
He stood for a moment, his hand still on the doorknob.
He had performed his function. The correct verdict had been rendered based on the available data. Yet, the human system did not react with the silent acceptance of the divine realm. It had reacted with turmoil.
A knock, sharp and quick.
"Enter."
Clara Reed opened the door. She held a fresh folder, but her attention was entirely on him. "Judge Thorne. That was… a dismissal with prejudice. On a petty theft."
"The classification of the crime is irrelevant. The integrity of the process is paramount," he stated, moving to his desk. "The state failed its burden. More importantly, it failed to seek the full truth."
Clara stepped inside, closing the door. "You implicated a third party from the bench. A 'Mr. Henderson.' There's no mention of him in the police report."
"Because the police did not look. They saw a prior record, a nervous clerk, and stolen goods. The puzzle appeared solved. I observed the missing pieces."
"You observed?" Clara's tone was neutral, but her eyes were probing. "Judge, with respect, that went beyond interpretation of evidence. That was… active investigation."
Daniel sat. He looked up at her. She was not challenging him. She was analyzing him. He found he preferred this to the emotional fog of his family's concern. This was a clear, intellectual scrutiny.
"Is the role of a judge not to seek justice?"
"It's to adjudicate based on the evidence presented by the parties," she replied, her legal training surfacing. "We're referees, not detectives."
"A flawed design," he said simply. "If both parties fail to present key evidence, justice fails. I will not be complicit in that failure."
Clara was silent for a long moment. She finally let out a slow breath, a small, professional smile touching her lips. It didn't reach her watchful eyes. "Well, the District Attorney's office won't be happy. Ben Carter looked like he'd been slapped."
"His emotional state does not affect the validity of the ruling."
Another knock, this one heavier.
Before Daniel could speak, the door swung open.
District Attorney Robert Vance filled the doorway. He was a man in his late fifties, with a head of silver hair and a temper known to singe junior ADAs. His face was flushed.
"Thorne. A word." His voice was a low growl.
Clara instinctively took a step back, becoming part of the furniture.
"District Attorney Vance," Daniel acknowledged. "You may speak."
Vance strode in, not bothering to close the door. "What the hell was that? Dismissal with prejudice? You shredded a simple plea case on a hunch!"
"It was not a hunch. It was a deduction based on factual inconsistencies and investigative omission. The case was legally insufficient and morally suspect."
"Morally suspect?" Vance scoffed. "It was shoplifting! You sent a message to every two-bit thief and every public defender in this county that my office is sloppy!"
"If the message leads to more thorough investigations, then it is a positive outcome," Daniel replied, unmoved by the man's heat.
Vance leaned on the desk, his palms flat. "Listen, Daniel. We're all glad you're back. What happened to you was a tragedy. But you can't come back swinging a wrecking ball. The machine has to run."
"The machine produced an incorrect result. I corrected it."
"You theorized!" Vance straightened up, running a hand through his hair. "This 'Mr. Henderson'? I had a patrol car swing by the Quick-Stop. He's a retired postal worker. Seventy years old. No record. Patel says he's a saint."
"His age and occupation are not relevant," Daniel said. "His opportunity is. The police should interview him to confirm his actions and eliminate him from consideration. They did not. That is the failure."
Vance stared at him, his anger cooling into something more calculating. He was seeing the same thing Clara had seen—the white hair, the unsettling calm, the absolute, unshakeable certainty. This wasn't the diligent, somewhat idealistic Judge Thorne he used to debate with over scotch.
This was something else.
"You've changed, Daniel," Vance said, his voice dropping.
"I have," Daniel agreed truthfully.
A tense silence stretched. Vance finally shook his head. "Just… run your theories by me next time. Before you blow up a case from the bench. As a professional courtesy."
"I will consider it," Daniel said, which, from him, was a non-commitment.
Vance left, the door clicking shut with finality.
The room was quiet again. Clara hadn't moved.
"He's afraid," Daniel stated, looking at the closed door.
"He's political," Clara corrected softly. "A dismissal like that is a black mark on his conviction rate. And he's… he's worried about you."
"Why?"
Clara hesitated. She chose her words with care. "Because the Judge Thorne who went into the hospital would have called him beforehand. Would have voiced his concerns, given the DA a chance to withdraw the charges. You didn't just apply the law differently today. You applied… a different worldview."
Daniel processed this. She was correct. The old Daniel Thorne understood human politics, the dance of favors and face-saving. Mithra did not. He saw Truth and Not-Truth.
"You believe I erred in my methodology?" he asked her.
To his surprise, a genuine, small smile broke through her professional mask. "I believe you gave a kid with a record a second chance he probably didn't get last time. And you made a bunch of lazy cops and prosecutors sweat. So, no. I don't think you erred."
She turned to leave. "Your next motion hearing is in an hour. I'll bring the files."
"Clara."
She stopped, hand on the doorknob.
"Thank you," he said.
This time, his attempt at human gratitude felt slightly less foreign. Perhaps because he was beginning to understand the value of an ally in this confusing system.
**---
The family dinner was a minefield of casseroles and concern.
Sarah had made a lasagna. The table was set with care. Harold sat at the head, carving. Elise talked about a rare book that came into the library. Liam shoveled food in, silent.
"So," Harold said, passing a plate to Daniel. "First day back. How'd it go?"
"It was functional," Daniel said, taking a bite of lasagna. The layers of pasta, cheese, and meat were a complex logistical problem he enjoyed solving. "I presided over one case and dismissed it."
"Dismissed?" Elise asked. "Like, let the guy go?"
"Correct. The state's evidence was factually and logically deficient."
Liam snorted. "So you just let a criminal walk. Cool."
"Liam!" Sarah chided.
"He was not a criminal," Daniel stated, looking directly at his brother. "He was a suspect. The distinction is fundamental. To label him a criminal without proof is the same error the police made."
"But he had a record," Liam argued, parroting what he'd heard on TV.
"A prior act does not prove a current one. If you failed a math test last year, does that mean you failed the one you took today? Without even looking at it?"
Liam opened his mouth, then shut it, scowling.
"That's… a very good point, Danny," Harold said, hiding his amazement behind a sip of water. "How did the… um… other lawyers take it?"
"The District Attorney was angry. He values the efficient operation of the 'machine' over the correct outcome in an individual case. My judicial assistant, however, approved."
"You talked to Clara?" Elise asked, a hint of a sisterly tease in her voice. The old Daniel had a quiet, professional respect for Clara Reed that Elise had sometimes nudged him about.
"Yes. She provided analysis of the social repercussions of my actions."
"And what did you talk about with her?" Sarah asked, leaning forward, her motherly radar pinging.
Daniel thought. "We discussed the difference between adjudication and investigation. The District Attorney's emotional state. And the importance of thorough police work."
The table fell silent. That was not flirty banter. That was a workplace debrief.
Harold cleared his throat. "Well, I'm sure she's glad to have you back. She seemed very worried at the hospital."
Daniel remembered Clara at the hospital. Standing respectfully in the corner, her face a mask of professional concern, but her eyes missing nothing. She had brought a get-well card signed by the entire courthouse staff. A human ritual.
"I believe she was," Daniel said. And for the first time, the concept of someone outside his family worrying for him sparked a faint, warm echo in his chest. It was small, but it was there.
After dinner, Daniel retreated to his room—Daniel's old room. Law books, a baseball trophy, a framed photo of him graduating law school. The life of another man.
He sat at the desk. The cold prickle from the courthouse returned. The watcher. The message sent.
Phase 2 observation.
They were not done with him. The people who killed the original Daniel Thorne.
He felt no fear. Only a sharpening of focus. They were a variable. An unsolved equation.
He looked at the family photo on the desk. Sarah, Harold, Elise, Liam, and a smiling Daniel with dark hair.
He had a function here now. Two functions, perhaps. To be a judge. And to be a son, a brother.
And a third, unspoken one: to find the truth of his own arrival.
Down the hall, he heard Sarah crying softly. Harold's low, comforting murmur. "He's just different, Sarah. He's been through hell. We have to be patient."
The sound of human grief, caused by his presence.
The new feeling in his chest tightened. It wasn't guilt. It was the weight of a debt. He had taken this man's place. The least he could do was protect the world this man had loved.
He picked up a pen. On a fresh notepad, he wrote two words.
OMNICORP. HENDERSON.
Then, he began to draw lines, connecting them to the case file, to the murder method, to the political connections of the District Attorney. A human mind, trained in divine logic, started to map the shadows.
In her apartment across town, Clara Reed sat at her own desk, her laptop open. On the screen was the public database for county medical records. She had no right to access it. But her judge was different. Wrong. And the official story of a "gas leak" leading to a miraculous full recovery in days… it was as flimsy as the case he'd dismissed.
She typed in a case number. The one for the original police report on Daniel Thorne's "accident."
Her finger hovered over the enter key.
The watcher, in a parked car a block from the Thorne residence, sent another message.
Subject's behavioral shift is pronounced. Legal acumen is heightened, social cognition is impaired. Emotional affect is flat. Hypothesis: Neurological rewiring or personality fragmentation post-trauma. Continuing surveillance. Awaiting instructions re: containment or elimination.
Two women, one man, and a god-turned-judge, all pulling on different threads of the same dark tapestry.
And the tapestry was beginning to unravel.