Cora rose from her leather chair, the weight of the "D-Day" trial pressing against her chest like a physical force. She stepped in front of the full-length mirror, her reflection staring back with a mixture of desperate ambition and exhaustion.
She began her ritual. Her hair—black with deep blue-dyed ends—was swept up and secured into a bun so tight it felt like a helmet. She patted down her skirt and blouse, her hands moving with a frantic rhythm; as an INFJ lost in her own head, her sense of time was already slipping away.
Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a massive, sparkly pouch. This wasn't just makeup; it was her war paint.
She ignored her foundation—it was holding steady—but her eyeshadow had faded. With the precision of a surgeon, she worked the brush, using a makeup remover-dipped Q-tip to carve out a sharp, lethal cat-eye finish. Since bold eyeliner was a risk in her father's conservative courtroom, she let the shadow do the heavy lifting. She curled her lashes and reached for her favorite pink tube of mascara, coating them until they were voluminous and lifted. A heavy layer of concealer followed, masking the dark circles earned from seventy-two hours of archival research.
Next came the sculpting. She swiped a cream blush along her cheekbones, followed by a sharp dot of bronzer right below it and a shimmer of highlighter above. She blended them until her face looked as hard and sculpted as the Iron-Haven skyscrapers.
She lined her lips—not quite overboard, but far from subtle—and swiped on a matte "Dark Rose" lipstick. The magenta-red tone popped against her neutral complexion. To lock the mask in place, she layered a makeup fixer and a final mist of setting spray.
Finally, she spritzed her signature Sea Salt perfume. The scent was a contradiction—tangy ocean air mixed with sweet vanilla—a subtle nod to her mother's Tideforge shipbuilding roots and her own desire for something softer.
The door creaked open. Buddy stood there, his hair slicked back with enough gel to withstand a gale-force wind. He looked sharper, more serious than usual.
"Are you done?" he asked, his voice lacking its usual playful lilt.
"Yes," Cora replied, her voice steadying as she gathered her evidence binders. "Let me grab everything and we go."
"I'll be waiting in the car," Buddy said with a curt nod before disappearing.
Left alone for one last second, Cora looked at the mirror. She threw a flying kiss to her reflection—a moment of "empty confidence" before the storm.
She marched down the hallway, the rhythmic click-clack of her heels echoing against the IHPO's glass walls. She passed the desks of Blip, Nina, and Toby, feeling their silent prayers for a victory that would save all their careers. She moved past the reception and through the heavy glass doors into the humid Iron-Haven air.
The black sedan was idling at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the city she was determined to protect. She stepped inside, the door closing with a heavy thud that sounded suspiciously like a gavel.
Inside the sedan, the air was thick with the scent of high-end toner and desperation. Buddy was hunched over, his eyes darting across the files one last time, hunting for a ghost in the data.
"Oh, you're here. Driver, you may proceed," he signaled, and the car glided forward into the quiet hum of the city. Buddy didn't look up from the paperwork. "All the minor details are checked. Is there anything left out, Cora? Anything at all?".
"Nope. Check everything again, Bud," she said, offering a tight, confident smile.
Buddy finally leaned back, inhaling deeply. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Oh, Miss Nightfall sure does smell amazing today. Are you planning to escape the Measure by sheer addictive scent alone?".
Cora smoothed her skirt, her gaze fixed on the passing greenery of Iron-Haven. "At least I need to look and smell good after those horrendous sessions. I can't be incompetent and unpolished at the same time, you know?".
"Right, right! This will be fine, Corry. We'll get through today," he said, smiling at her with that loyal, "puppy-dog" energy he always radiated.
The car pulled to a stop in front of the massive, looming stone pillars of the Supreme Court. They stepped out in perfect synchronization, sliding their heavy prosecutor gowns over their shoulders like armor. Since their hair was pinned and gelled into submission, they couldn't perform their signature flick. Instead, they both brushed their hair back with a dramatic, simultaneous sweep of their hands.
The crowd of reporters and onlookers stared. Some whispered that they looked crazy; others knew they were just being "The Duo"—the most theatrically ambitious pair in the IHPO.
They entered the courthouse, and Cora took a long, steadying breath. She inhaled the scent of musky old wood and the heavy, electric aura of a busy court. Once inside their assigned waiting room, she sank onto the velvet couch, her mind a whirlwind of closing arguments.
Buddy sat beside her, meticulously rearranging the files from his briefcase. Cora let her eyes drift to the portrait on the far wall: Madam Justice.
She was the architect of Iron-Haven's constitution, alongside her husband, Supreme Judge Sue Briefcase. Their history was the foundation of the city—a legacy of bringing justice to the nation no matter the cost. Justice for every citizen; equality before the law. That was Madam Justice's motto, and it had become Cora's as well, even if she had lost her way in the pursuit of the spotlight.
A court clerk knocked sharply on the door. "The session is about to begin. You are being called inside."
Buddy stood up, his face hardening into his "trial mode." He brushed his hair back dramatically. "Let's get it!".
"We sure will," Cora replied, replicating the gesture with a sharp, determined grace.
They walked down the high-arched hallway, the ventilation system blowing a cool breeze against their gowns. They were adjusting to the aura they needed to radiate—a blend of surgical precision and the legendary Nightfall authority. Today, they weren't just prosecutors; they were the last line of defense for the infants of Iron-Haven.
The heavy, ornate doors of the Iron-Haven Supreme Court creaked open, admitting a gust of pressurized, filtered air from the hallway. The atmosphere inside was a stark contrast to the city's quiet hum; it was a tomb of hushed whispers and high-stakes tension. Cora and Buddy moved to the prosecution table, their gowns rustling with every step as they took their places.
"All rise!" the Bailiff's voice boomed, cutting through the murmurs.
Every person in the gallery stood in synchronized silence. From the side chambers, the leadership of the court emerged. Chief Justice Crownwell Stormgavel led the procession, his presence a reminder of the "final word" in Iron-Haven law. He was followed by Judge Maple Ironbloom, whose gentle gait belied the sharp, decisive rulings for which she was known.
Finally, Judge Alaric Nightfall stepped onto the bench. He didn't look at his daughter; he looked only at the bench, the living embodiment of the "Nightfall Measure".
"Please be seated," the Bailiff announced.
As the room settled, Alaric opened the case file. "This court is now in session for the third and final time regarding the Lelly Jelly scandal," he stated, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of absolute fairness. "Prosecution, the floor is yours. Ensure you do not waste it".
Buddy Snapjaw stood, his usual "partner energy" replaced by a sharp, professional edge. He stepped to the podium, his posture straight as he addressed the three judges.
"Your Honors," Buddy began, his voice projecting clearly. "The prosecution calls the court's attention to Exhibit C-42: the internal ledger of Lelly Jelly's procurement department".
On the screens, Toby Statflip, Cora's associate in charge of timelines and facts, projected a highlighted spreadsheet.
"As you can see, on the fourteenth of March, the company ceased their contract with 'Pure-Sweet Botanicals.' In its place, they authorized a bulk purchase of 'Z-Grade Industrial Glaze' from an unlicensed refinery," Buddy explained. "While the defense previously argued this was a clerical error, we have secured the testimony of our records keeper, Quillie Docketpop, who can verify that this specific order was flagged three times by the safety committee—and three times, those flags were manually overridden by the CEO's office".
Buddy paused, pacing a short, controlled line to maintain the jury's focus.
"Furthermore, we have the 'Nightfall Measure' of evidence regarding the health impact," Buddy continued. "We are relying on the forensic chemistry of Dr. Glimmer Testbyte".
A complex molecular diagram appeared on the screen, courtesy of the tech unit.
"Dr. Testbyte's analysis found that the 'Z-Grade' glaze doesn't break down; it crystallizes in an infant's digestive system, leading to systemic failure," Buddy said, his voice dropping to a low thrum. "This wasn't a failure of logistics. It was a calculated decision to prioritize a four-million-dollar saving over the lives of Iron-Haven's children".
He turned back to the bench, locking eyes with Judge Maple Ironbloom.
"The defense moved to suppress the warehouse samples, and the Court granted that motion. But the law does not require us to hold the poison in our hands if we can prove the defendant bought the poison, hid the poison, and watched it do its work through their own financial records".
Buddy bowed his head slightly toward Alaric, then returned to the table. He sat down and leaned toward Cora, whispering, "I've laid the bricks, Corry. The floor is airtight. Now you just have to close the door".
Cora felt the weight of the courtroom shift as she stood. This was the moment she had visualized in her office—the "D-Day" where she would finally emerge as a champion. Every movement she made was a calculated performance, her "Dark Rose" lipstick a sharp contrast to the sterile, musky wood of the court.
Cora stepped to the center of the floor, her heels clicking with a rhythm that felt like a pulse. She didn't look at the gallery or her partner; she kept her gaze fixed on the panel of judges.
"Your Honors," Cora began, her voice resonating with a poetic logic that filled the high-arched chamber. "Justice is not merely about logs and ledgers. It is about the social contract we sign with the future. When Lelly Jelly placed those treats on the shelves, they signed a promise of safety. They didn't just break a regulation; they shattered the trust of every parent in Iron-Haven."
She moved with a grace that signaled a new level of maturity. She wove Buddy's technical findings into a narrative of systemic betrayal, connecting the "Z-Grade" chemical purchase orders to the hospital footage of the two infants.
Judge Maple Ironbloom leaned forward, her sharp, decisive eyes softening as she watched Cora bridge the gap between cold evidence and human cost. Beside her, Chief Justice Crownwell Stormgavel offered a slow, imperceptible nod—the legendary "final word" of the law seemed, for a moment, to be leaning in her favor.
For fifteen minutes, Cora was untouchable. She accounted for every "littlest of details," meeting the rigorous standards of "The Nightfall Measure" with a precision that even Alaric couldn't ignore. Alaric himself remained a living statue, his expression unreadable, but the heavy silence he maintained was no longer an interruption—it was a space she was successfully filling.
Buddy let out a breath he had been holding for an hour. She was doing it. She was winning.
"Therefore," Cora concluded, her voice reaching a crescendo of absolute certainty, "we ask this court to hold Lelly Jelly accountable, not just for their greed, but for the deliberate endangerment of our city's legacy."
She turned to walk back to her table, a spark of genuine triumph in her eyes. But as she neared her seat, the lead defense attorney stood up. He didn't look defeated; he looked like a predator that had finally seen its opening.
"Prosecutor Nightfall," the attorney said, his voice dripping with a mock, silky pity. "A truly moving performance. But while you were painting your masterpiece, you neglected to notice that the canvas has been burned."
He turned toward the bench, a small, silver data drive in his hand.
"Your Honors, I move for an immediate dismissal based on the 'Shadow Protocol' of the Iron-Haven Legal Assembly code—Section 9, Clause 4," the attorney announced. "This clause states that any prosecution relying on digital financial records must provide the 'Original Source Encryption Key' to verify that no tampering occurred during the data recovery process."
Cora felt a cold spike of dread. "We have the verified logs from Byte Bunny and our tech unit," she countered, her voice sharp.
"The logs, yes," the attorney smirked. "But the Source Key—the physical digital signature from the Lelly Jelly servers—was stored in the IHPD's 'Small Tech Unit' evidence locker. Or rather, it was."
He signaled to the screen. A new image appeared: a corrupted file directory from the IHPD servers, showing a total wipe of the specific encryption keys needed to validate the financial warrants Buddy had presented.
"The evidence hasn't just been suppressed this time, Your Honors," the attorney said, his voice hardening. "It has been erased. Without those keys, the law dictates that the digital records are inadmissible. It's a loophole as old as the city itself."
The courtroom plummeted into a suffocating silence. Cora looked at Buddy, who was staring at the screen in a state of "spark shock"—a total, paralyzing realization of what had just happened. This wasn't a mistake of ego or a failure of preparation. Someone had deliberately tampered with the IHPD's security to delete the only thing that could save their case.
Cora turned her head slowly toward the bench. Alaric Nightfall was no longer looking at his notes. He was looking at the empty space where the truth used to be, his hand reaching for the gavel.
The "Nightfall Measure" was falling, and this time, it was going to crush them both.
The silence in the courtroom wasn't empty; it was heavy, pressing against Cora's eardrums until she could hear the frantic thrum of her own pulse. The lead defense attorney didn't sit down. He leaned back against his table, crossing his arms with a slow, predatory smirk that said everything. He had played the system, and the system had won for him.
Cora stood frozen in the center of the room, the "Dark Rose" color on her lips feeling like a target. Her eyes darted from the corrupted server logs on the screen to her father's face. For the first time, Alaric Nightfall didn't look neutral—he looked profoundly disappointed, not in her preparation, but in the reality of the law he had spent his life defending.
"The Shadow Protocol," Alaric's voice finally broke the silence, sounding more like a tolling bell than a human voice. "Section 9, Clause 4. The law is absolute, Prosecutor. If the encryption keys are missing, the integrity of the digital source is compromised. It does not matter why they are missing. It only matters that they are not here."
He reached for the gavel, the movement slow and agonizing.
This isn't happening, Cora's mind spiraled, her INFJ dreaming nature turning into a vivid, waking nightmare. I did everything. I stayed up for seventy-two hours. I checked the logs. I smelled like sea salt and victory. She looked at Buddy. He was still in "spark shock," his hands gripping the edge of the mahogany table so hard his knuckles were white. They had been surgically precise, but someone had cut the power to the hospital. The realization that they had been sabotaged—that the evidence had been tampered with inside the IHPD's own Small Tech Unit—sent her thoughts into a tailspin.
Who? her mind screamed. Goldie Ledgerpop? Bolt Turnclash?. Names from her files flashed like warning lights. Was it the Tideforge routes? The shipping lines?
The defense lawyer's smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with the triumph of a man who knew he was untouchable. He had found the one "littlest of details" that couldn't be fixed with hard work: a loophole designed to protect the powerful.
"The Nightfall Measure," Alaric continued, his gaze finally meeting Cora's with a weight that felt like a physical blow, "demands absolute fairness. Without the source keys, the defense is denied their right to verify the evidence. The digital records are suppressed.".
Clang.
The sound of the gavel hitting the wood echoed through the chamber, signaling the third and final pause. It was the sound of her career snapping in two.
I'm done, she thought, the walls of the courtroom feeling like they were closing in. Judgeberry is going to strip my title. He's going to disband the team. Blip, Nina, Toby... they're all going down with me..
She felt the eyes of the gallery, the flashes of the media cameras, and the cold, silent pride of her father that had suddenly turned into a public "grounding.". She wasn't a champion. She was a Nightfall who had failed the Measure for the last time, caught in a trap she never saw coming.
As the judges rose to exit, Cora stayed standing, a lone figure in a designer suit, paralyzed by the loophole that had turned her "D-Day" into her downfall.