The rest of the trial played out exactly as expected.
A few more statents. A few more witnesses. So additional pieces of evidence.
But none of it changed the outco.
Mr. Do was guilty.
It wasn't even up for debate.
The jury was led into a separate deliberation room, and within minutes, the conclusion was unanimous.
No one spoke in his defense.
No one hesitated.
It was clean. Efficient. Expected.
But as I sat there, my fingers tapping against the wooden surface of the table, I couldn't shake the lingering unease pressing against my skull.
The Masked Syndicate is watching.
This is only the beginning.
What the hell did that an?
Was this a warning? A signal? A trap?
I exhaled slowly, rubbing my temple.
This was bigger than I thought.
And I needed to figure out why.
After the trial, I left the courtroom, walking toward the exit with purposeful strides.
I needed to get ho. Needed to process everything.
But fate had other plans.
The elevator doors slid open just as I approached.
And standing inside—leaning casually against the railing, arms crossed, expression smug—was Damian Voss.
I stepped inside without a word.
He didn't let the silence last.
"Must be nice," he mused, adjusting his cuffs. "Sitting on the sidelines, playing the part of a lowly B-Rank worker. Watching people like handle actual cases."
I didn't respond.
Not because I couldn't.
But because I didn't care.
I had more important things on my mind than indulging Damian's ego.
He tilted his head slightly, clearly annoyed by my lack of reaction. "What? No defense? No clever remark?"
I remained silent, my thoughts elsewhere.
Mr. Do.
His words.
The implications.
"Typical," Damian scoffed. "People like you don't belong in places like this. Stick to your construction sites and leave the law to professionals."
The elevator chid, signaling our arrival at the lobby.
I stepped out.
Damian stayed behind.
As the doors began to close, his voice rang out one last ti.
"Enjoy your diocrity, Vale."
The doors sealed shut before I could even think of a response.
Not that I needed to.
Because in three weeks, it was likely he would be seeing again.
But this ti—
Not as Reynard Vale.
The mont I got ho, I gathered the girls in the living room.
Sienna sat cross-legged on the couch, arms crossed as she listened intently. Camille leaned against the armrest, sipping a cup of tea. Alexis sat on the floor, twirling a pen between her fingers.
"I need you all to keep an eye out," I said.
"For what?" Sienna asked.
"Fakes."
That got their attention.
I explained everything.
The trial. Mr. Do. The way he claid to be part of the Masked Syndicate—how he used our na like a shield, twisting it into sothing else.
By the ti I finished, Camille let out a low whistle.
"That's bold," she murmured.
"That's dangerous," Sienna corrected, her brows furrowing. "If more people start pretending to be us, we'll lose control of our image. Of everything."
I nodded. "That's why I need you to keep watch. If you see anything—news articles, reports, even rumors—let know imdiately."
Alexis smirked. "You really are taking this whole secret organization thing seriously, huh?"
I shot her a look. "Well it's not like we can say 'It was just a joke your honor', can we?"
Her smirk widened, but she raised her hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. I'll keep an eye out."
Camille set her cup down. "What's your next move?"
"For now? I'll study and prepare."
I exhaled.
"And I'll try to figure out how to deal with this ss before the trial in three weeks."
Night fell.
I buried myself in legal texts, pouring over cases, precedents, strategies.
Each passage, each ruling, each argunt strengthened my foundation.
I needed to be ready.
Because if I made one mistake—just one—everything would crumble.
Then, without warning—
Camille burst into my office.
"Rey. Co with ."
I blinked. "What?"
She didn't wait. She grabbed my wrist, dragging into her workspace.
"Camille—"
"Shut up. Just look."
She gestured toward the table.
And there—
Resting in the dim glow of the desk lamp—
Was my new mask.
I inhaled sharply, stepping closer.
The design was unlike anything I had worn before.
Sleek. Dark. Etched with intricate, scale-like textures that shimred subtly under the light. The structure was smooth yet jagged, like sothing born from the depths of the abyss.
A sea dragon.
A Leviathan.
Camille grinned. "Took long enough, huh?"
I reached out, running my fingers along the surface. The material was firm, yet light—designed for both intimidation and practicality.
"You really went all out," I murmured.
She shrugged. "Well, you're not just so urban myth anymore, sweetie. You're a legend now. You needed sothing that felt like it."
I lifted the mask, staring into its empty eyes.
Then—
Slowly—
I placed it over my face.
The mont it settled, a familiar sensation washed over .
It was like slipping into an identity I had always known.
Like becoming sothing more.
Camille leaned against the desk, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"Well?" she mused. "How does it feel Mr.....?"
I t her gaze through the mask's darkened lenses.
And for the first ti in a long ti—
I smiled.
"Call Leviathan."
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