Page 66

Three days in Tartarus could break a normal man.

The isolation, the sterile white walls, the constant surveillance.

It was all designed to strip away resistance before judgment.

My injuries had been left mostly untreated, a subtle reminder of my diminished status.

The bullet graze along my side had finally stopped seeping, though the pain remained a constant companion.

I'd spent the time calculating angles, reviewing every word I'd say at the tribunal, and replaying Vincent's visit over and over.

His determination to fight for me had burned into my memory, a lifeline in the darkness of my cell.

When they finally came for me, I was ready.

Four Cerberus operatives in full tactical gear escorted me through the underground passages of the Acropolis, heavy chains at my wrists and ankles more ceremonial than practical.

The weight of the cold metal against my skin reminded me that I was not a person in their eyes, but property that had malfunctioned.

The Tribunal chamber screamed power and antiquity.

It reminded me of a medieval cathedral designed by architects who worshipped death instead of salvation.

Soaring ceilings vanished into shadows thirty feet above, while hidden vents circulated air that smelled faintly of incense and gun oil.

Three enormous obsidian thrones dominated the center, forming a perfect triangle on a raised dais.

Beneath them, the floor was inlaid with a mosaic depicting Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx, the ferryman's face hidden beneath a hood while his passengers stared out with expressions of terror and resignation.

Subtle but effective. A reminder of where power truly resided in our world.

I stood in the center of that mosaic. My body throbbed in time with my pulse, the bullet graze along my side burning fiercely. The bruises on my throat throbbed and my voice was hoarse. It was manageable. I'd survived worse.

Behind the single occupied throne, a massive stained glass window depicted scenes from Greek mythology, casting jewel-colored light across the polished stone floor.

The chamber was located in the deepest level of the Acropolis, accessible only through a single set of bronze doors guarded by four Cerberus operatives in full tactical gear.

To my left stood a row of six large screens, each displaying the face of a director observing the proceedings remotely. Their involvement was ceremonial only. Here, in this chamber, the Tribunal reigned supreme, their judgment absolute and unquestionable.

No windows except the stained glass. No visible ventilation ducts were large enough for a human.

Twelve armed guards stationed around the perimeter.

Two snipers in elevated positions at the back of the chamber, their rifles trained on me.

Overkill for one battered assassin in chains, but I was flattered by their caution.

They designed the chamber to intimidate, to remind the accused how small and powerless they were before the might of the Pantheon. To their credit, it worked. Even I, who had spent my entire life in this world, felt a flutter of fear crawl up my spine as I took in the theatrical grandeur of it all.

At precisely nine o'clock, the screens flickered to life simultaneously. The six directors appeared, each in their distinctive regional attire, their faces solemn as they prepared to witness my judgment. I recognized a few from intelligence briefings and mission files.

Then came the Tribunal. The bronze doors opened, and Rhadamanthys entered alone, his commanding height emphasized by his black Stetson. His pearl-handled revolver gleamed at his hip. He moved to occupy the central throne, spurs singing softly against the marble.

The other two thrones remained empty but active. Their obsidian surfaces displayed projections of Minos and Aeacus, who would judge remotely. Minos, with his calculating eyes that missed nothing, and Aeacus, her severe features carved from the same stone as her principles.

These three held my life in their hands, absolute and unquestionable arbiters of the Pantheon's justice. All other authorities bowed before the unanimous will of the Tribunal.

When all were connected, Minos spoke, her rich contralto voice filling the chamber through hidden speakers. "Luka Aleksandar, you stand accused of killing Director Prometheus, North American Head of the Pantheon. How do you plead?"

I straightened my spine despite the pain that radiated through my side. "Guilty."

A murmur rippled through the observers. No denials, no excuses. Just the simple truth.

"You admit to this capital offense?" Rhadamanthys leaned forward in his throne .

"I killed him," I replied, my voice steady as a sniper's hand. "Stabbed him repeatedly in the liver. And I'd do it again, slower next time."

Aeacus frowned. "You understand that the penalty for killing a director is death? Your confession guarantees your execution."

I smiled, tasting copper as my split lip cracked open again.

"If you've already written the ending to this little play, why waste everyone's time?

" I rattled my shackled hands toward the theatrical chamber.

"Skip to the finale. One bullet, back of the skull, cremation by noon. We all know the drill."

"The Tribunal process must be observed," Minos replied. "Even for those who confess. Your motivations and the circumstances must be examined before a sentence is passed."

Of course. The Pantheon loved its rituals, its traditions. Never mind that those same traditions had allowed Prometheus to abuse children with impunity for decades. Fucking theater, all of it.

"I have representation," I said, the words feeling strange in my mouth. Assassins didn't get lawyers. We got bullets.

The unexpected statement caused another stir among the observers. I couldn't see Vincent yet, but I knew he was there somewhere, preparing to make his case. The thought of him gave me strength, a warm certainty beneath the cold dread of my situation.

"This is most irregular," Hera called from her screen, her Russian accent sharp with disapproval. "The accused traditionally speaks in their own defense."

"Yet nothing in the Charter forbids representation," I countered. "Article seventeen, paragraph three: 'The accused may present evidence and testimony in any manner deemed appropriate by the Tribunal.'"

I had Lo to thank for that bit of research. Who knew his exceptional skill at finding legal loopholes extended beyond avoiding speeding tickets and tax evasion?

The Tribunal conferred among themselves, their screens briefly switching to a private channel as they discussed. Finally, Minos's screen brightened again.

"The Tribunal will allow representation. Who speaks for Luka Aleksandar?"

The bronze doors opened again. Vincent strode in, shoulders squared and chin lifted, radiating a confidence I'd never seen before.

Gone was the slightly rumpled therapist with soft sweaters and gentle eyes.

This Vincent moved like a predator, calculating and purposeful, the charcoal suit hugging his frame like armor.

Beside him walked Lo, uncharacteristically serious in simple black attire that somehow made him look more dangerous than his usual flamboyance.

My heart stuttered in my chest at the sight of Vincent. It had been three days since I'd seen him, three days of isolation in Tartarus with nothing but my thoughts and regrets for company. He looked tired but unbroken, determination written in every line of his body.

What have you done to yourself for me, doc? The thought brought equal measures of gratitude and guilt.

"Dr. Vincent Matthews and Lorenzo Vasquez will speak for the accused," Vincent announced, his voice carrying clearly across the chamber.

Lo's full name sounded strange. I'd never heard anyone use it, not even him. He caught my eye and winked, as if reading my thoughts.

"Dr. Matthews is not a member of the Pantheon," Rhadamanthys observed, his dark eyes gleaming with interest as they swept over Vincent appreciatively. "This is unprecedented. "

"So is a director sexually abusing his assets and grooming a child to become his wife," Vincent replied, his professional veneer cracking as his voice rose. His hand trembled slightly before he clenched it into a fist. "Yet here we are."

A shocked silence crashed over the chamber like a wave. The collective gasp from the observers tickled my ears, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as their perfect composure cracked like thin ice.

Minos recovered first. "Those are serious allegations that have no bearing on the matter at hand."

Vincent's careful demeanor slipped further. "No bearing?" He laughed, a harsh sound I'd never heard from him before. "With respect, Judge Minos, that's complete bullshit."

Lo's eyes widened slightly. This wasn't the script they'd practiced.

Vincent caught himself, inhaling sharply through his nose.

"Forgive me," he said, not sounding sorry at all.

He moved to stand beside me, his shoulder almost touching mine.

I could smell his cologne, that familiar scent that had become synonymous with safety in my mind.

"We're not here to dispute that Luka killed Prometheus.

We're here to prove his actions were justified by Prometheus's violations of the Pantheon's most sacred codes. "

Another wave of whispers swept through the chamber. The Directors shifted on their platform, clearly taken aback.

"Such violations, if proven, do not negate the crime of killing a director," Dionysus noted from his screen, his smooth voice carrying a hint of skepticism.