Chapter 1: The Lion’s Den

 

The air in Courtroom 305 smelled like old wood polish, stale coffee, and the heavy, suffocating scent of institutional power. It was a smell designed to make you feel small. It was a smell designed to crush you.

I stood alone at the defendant’s table. I was seventeen years old. My suit was a thrift store find, a charcoal grey that was slightly too big in the shoulders. My mother had spent the previous night carefully hemming the sleeves, her tears wetting the fabric as she worked. She sat behind me in the gallery now, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were bone-white.

Judge Thaddeus Crawford peered over the rim of his wire-rimmed glasses. He looked exactly like the nightmare I’d pictured every night for the last three years. He had a face carved from granite and a reputation for handing out maximum sentences like they were candy on Halloween. He looked at me with bored contempt, the look of a man who had already decided my fate before I had even opened my mouth.

“Young man,” Crawford’s voice boomed through the hushed room, dripping with sarcasm. “This isn’t some High School Mock Trial. You are facing real charges. Computer trespassing. Unauthorized manipulation of state data. Felonies that will end your future before it even begins. Do you understand the gravity of your situation?”

He paused, playing to the packed courtroom. I could feel the heat of the camera lights and the eyes of the reporters burning into the back of my neck. They were here for the circus. The local news had branded me the “Cyber-Delinquent.” They were here to watch the high school hacker get crushed by the heavy hand of the law.

“Tell me,” Crawford sneered, leaning forward over his mahogany pulpit. “Where exactly did you get your law degree? TikTok University?”

Laughter rippled through the room. It was a cruel, sharp sound. The prosecutor, a sharp-eyed woman named Claire Sullivan, smirked as she arranged her files on the opposing table. She radiated confidence. To her, I was just a speed bump. A statistic. An arrogant kid who watched too many legal dramas and thought he could play in the big leagues.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t flinch. I forced my breathing to remain steady, counting the seconds in my head. One. Two. Three.

“I am representing myself, Your Honor,” I said. My voice was steady, calmer than I felt inside. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, but I wouldn’t let them see it. “Under Faretta v. California, I have the constitutional right to self-representation, provided I make this choice knowingly and voluntarily. I do.”

Crawford rolled his eyes, a theatrical gesture for the court reporter. “Very well. But don’t expect me to throw you a life preserver when you start to drown, Mr. Hayes. Miss Sullivan, proceed with opening statements.”

As the prosecutor stood up to paint me as a dangerous digital vandal, my mind drifted away from the courtroom. I wasn’t seeing the polished wood or the state seal on the wall. I was seeing my bedroom walls.

For three years, they hadn’t been covered with band posters or sports pennants. They were covered with timelines. Maps of bank transfers. Flowcharts of shell companies. Sticky notes connecting names, dates, and payments.

They thought I was here to fight a hacking charge. They were wrong.

I wasn’t trapped in here with them. They were trapped in here with me.

Three years ago, this same system planted evidence to frame my father, Alexander Hayes. He was a good attorney, an honest one. He got too close to a construction conglomerate called Westbrook Development. To protect their contracts, they destroyed him. They planted jury tampering evidence, disbarred him, and sent him to the State Penitentiary for fifteen years.

They thought destroying one family didn’t matter. They thought we were collateral damage.

But they forgot one thing. They forgot that Alexander Hayes had a son. A son who didn’t sleep. A son who spent every waking hour in the county library, reading every statute, every precedent, every loophole. A son who knew that the truth is like water—no matter how hard you try to hold it back, it always finds a crack.

And I was about to become the flood.

Chapter 2: The Faraday Cage

 

“The State calls its first witness,” Claire Sullivan announced, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. “Mr. Gary Reynolds, District IT Administrator.”

This was it. The trap was set.

Reynolds took the stand. He was a soft man, doughy and nervous. He kept wiping his palms on his trousers. He was the man who had “discovered” the logs proving I had hacked the school database to change grades.

He swore to tell the truth, but his eyes were darting around the room, looking for an exit.

Sullivan led him through the technical jargon. IP addresses. Server logs. Unauthorized admin access. She built a wall of technical evidence that looked insurmountable to the jury. She painted me as a digital genius who used his powers to cause chaos.

“And can you confirm,” Sullivan asked, “that the intrusion came from the defendant’s personal laptop?”

“Yes,” Reynolds said, his voice trembling slightly. “We traced the MAC address directly to Logan Hayes’s machine.”

“No further questions.” Sullivan sat down, looking satisfied.

Judge Crawford looked at me. “Mr. Hayes? Do you have any questions, or are you ready to plead guilty yet?”

I walked to the podium. I didn’t bring my notepad. I didn’t need it. I had memorized every pixel of the discovery files. I knew the logs better than the man who wrote them.

“Mr. Reynolds,” I began, looking him dead in the eye. “You testified that the unauthorized access originated from my personal laptop at 3:47 PM on October 15th, correct?”

Reynolds looked at the prosecutor for reassurance, then back at me. “Yes. That’s what the logs show.”

“And the school library’s Wi-Fi access logs confirm my laptop was connected to the network at that time?”

“That is correct.”

I turned to the bailiff. “Your Honor, I would like to enter Defense Exhibit A.”

I handed a single sheet of paper to the bailiff, who passed it to the Judge and the prosecutor.

“This is the official attendance record for my AP Physics class on October 15th,” I said, my voice rising just enough to carry to the back of the room. “It is signed by Mrs. Davidson, the instructor. It clearly shows that from 3:00 PM to 4:30 PM, I was physically present in the physics lab on the third floor.”

I paused. The room went silent.

“So?” Judge Crawford grunted. “You were in class. You could have been on your laptop in class.”

“Actually, Your Honor, I couldn’t.” I turned back to the witness. “Mr. Reynolds, are you familiar with the renovations done to the science wing last summer?”

“I… yes. I oversaw the network installation.”

“Then you are aware,” I said, leaning in, “that the AP Physics lab was retrofitted to be a Faraday cage? The walls are lined with copper mesh for electromagnetic experiments. There is zero Wi-Fi signal inside that room. No cell service. No internet. It is a digital dead zone.”

Reynolds blinked. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He looked like a fish pulled onto a dock.

“So,” I continued, my voice hardening. “If my laptop was in a room where the laws of physics prevent a signal from entering or exiting… how exactly did it access the school’s network?”

Claire Sullivan stopped sorting her papers. She stared at the IT administrator, her brow furrowing. She was smart. She realized instantly that her star witness had a massive problem.

“I… well, maybe you used a ethernet cable…” Reynolds stammered.

“There are no ethernet ports in the lab, Mr. Reynolds. You removed them during the renovation. It’s in your own budget report.”

I took a step closer to the witness stand.

“Is it possible,” I asked, “that someone spoofed my MAC address? Someone with administrative access? Someone who needed a convenient scapegoat to cover up what was really happening in the database?”

“Objection!” Sullivan shot up. “Speculation!”

“Goes to the credibility of the witness, Your Honor!” I shouted back, cutting her off.

Crawford looked at me. For the first time, the boredom was gone. In its place was something else. Caution. He realized I wasn’t just some kid playing dress-up.

“Overruled,” Crawford said slowly, his eyes narrowing. “Answer the question.”

Reynolds looked terrified. He knew what I was asking. He knew that I knew about the grade changes. Not mine. But the others. The ones paid for by judges and politicians.

Including the ones for a student named Sarah Crawford.

The Judge’s daughter.

I gripped the podium, my knuckles turning white. “I’m waiting, Mr. Reynolds. Who ordered you to falsify those logs?”

Chapter 3: The Thread Unravels

 

Silence hung in the courtroom, heavy and thick. Reynolds looked like he was about to vomit. He looked at the Judge. He looked at the Prosecutor. He looked everywhere but at me.

“I… I just follow standard procedure,” Reynolds whispered, his voice cracking.

“Standard procedure involves fabricating digital evidence?” I pressed.

“I didn’t! The logs…”

“The logs are impossible, Mr. Reynolds!” I slammed my hand on the podium. It was a calculated outburst. I needed to shake him. “Unless you tampered with them. Or unless you gave someone else the keys to do it. Which is it?”

“Mr. Hayes, watch your tone,” Judge Crawford warned, but his voice lacked its usual bite. He was shifting in his chair, tugging at his collar. He knew exactly where this was going.

I took a breath and lowered my voice. “No further questions.”

As I returned to my seat, I glanced at the gallery. My best friend, Mason Parker, was sitting in the back row. He gave me a subtle nod. Mason was a tech prodigy, the only person who knew the full extent of my plan. While I was in here dismantling their case legally, Mason was outside, monitoring the digital fallout.

The prosecutor, Claire Sullivan, looked rattled. She requested a brief recess. Crawford granted it almost too quickly.

In the hallway, I stood by the water fountain, trying to stop my hands from shaking. The adrenaline crash was hitting me.

“That was a hell of a show, kid.”

I turned. It was Detective Jack Callahan. He was the officer who had arrested my father three years ago. I stiffened.

“I’m not here to arrest you, Logan,” Callahan said, his voice gruff. He looked older than I remembered. “Your dad… I always felt something was off about that case. The evidence was too neat.”

“It was planted,” I said coldly.

“I know. Or I suspect. But suspicions don’t free men from prison.” He looked around to make sure we were alone. “But what you’re doing in there? poking the bear? Be careful. These people play for keeps. You expose the grade fixing, you expose the money. You expose the money, you expose Westbrook.”

“That’s the plan,” I said.

Callahan sighed. “Westbrook owns this town, Logan. He owns the cops. He owns the City Council. And he definitely owns that Judge in there.”

“He doesn’t own me.”

Callahan cracked a grim smile. “No. I guess he doesn’t. If you survive the day, kid… check your mom’s car. The brake lines. Just a hunch.”

My blood ran cold. I texted Mason immediately: Check Mom’s car. Now.

We went back into session. Sullivan looked composed again, but her eyes were wary. She called her next witness: Principal Edward Mitchell.

Mitchell walked in like he owned the place. He was arrogant, the kind of administrator who cared more about the school’s image than its students. He had suspended me three times for questioning school policies. He hated me.

“Principal Mitchell,” Sullivan asked. “Did you authorize Logan Hayes to access the administrative servers?”

“Absolutely not,” Mitchell scoffed. “Mr. Hayes has a history of insubordination. He believes the rules don’t apply to him.”

“And what was damaged by his intrusion?”

“The integrity of our academic records. We found multiple grades altered.”

“Thank you.”

My turn.

I stood up. I held a thick folder in my hand. I saw Mitchell’s eyes flick to it. Fear.

“Principal Mitchell,” I asked pleasantly. “You say grades were altered. Can you tell the court which students had their grades changed?”

“I… for privacy reasons, I cannot disclose the names of minors.”

“That’s convenient,” I said. “Because I have the list right here. Defense Exhibit B.”

I distributed the list. It contained twelve names.

“Twelve students,” I said. “Over the last two years. All of them had failing grades in math or science suddenly changed to A’s just before college applications were due. Do you notice a pattern with these names, Principal Mitchell?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Let me help you. Student number one: Brian Blackwood. Son of District Attorney Blackwood. Student number two: Jessica Sterling. Daughter of Marcus Sterling, head of security for Westbrook Development. And student number three…”

I looked directly at the Judge.

“Sarah Crawford. Daughter of the presiding judge.”

The courtroom erupted. Judge Crawford slammed his gavel, his face turning a furious shade of purple. “Order! Order in this court!”

“This is irrelevant!” Sullivan shouted, standing up. “The defendant is trying to turn this into a circus!”

“It is the motive!” I shouted back, my voice cutting through the noise. “I didn’t hack the system to change my grades. I found the logs of you changing theirs! I was framed because I stumbled onto your bribery scheme!”

“Bailiff!” Crawford roared. “Remove the jury! Recess! I want counsel in my chambers immediately!”

As the jury was ushered out, looking stunned, I locked eyes with the Judge. He looked ready to kill me.

But he couldn’t. Not with the cameras rolling. Not with the seed of doubt planted.

I walked into his chambers, Sullivan trailing behind me. The room was lined with leather books. It smelled of cigars and corruption.

Crawford slammed the door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, boy?”

“Defending myself,” I said calmly.

“You are treading on dangerous ground,” Crawford hissed. “You think a few grade changes matter? You have no idea what you are dealing with.”

“I know exactly what I’m dealing with,” I said. “The grade changes are just the currency. The real payment comes from the Westbrook Foundation. Donations to the school. ‘Scholarships’ for the principal’s kids. And for you… well, I haven’t found your offshore account yet, Thaddeus. But I will.”

Crawford’s face went pale.

Sullivan was watching me. She wasn’t angry anymore. She was looking at me with a strange expression. Calculation.

“Get out of my chambers,” Crawford whispered. “Court resumes in ten minutes. And if you mention my daughter again, I will hold you in contempt and throw you in a cell so dark you’ll forget what the sun looks like.”

“You can try,” I said.

I walked out. But as I passed Claire Sullivan, she leaned in close.

“You better be right about Westbrook,” she whispered, barely audible. “Because if you are… the DA knew about it. And she set me up to take the fall for this prosecution.”

I looked at her. The cracks were forming.

“Check the case file number 21-455,” I whispered back. “My father’s case. Look at the witness list. Look who paid them.”

She hesitated, then walked away.

I returned to the defense table. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Mason.

Brake lines were cut. Mom is safe. I drove her home. Police are on the way. But Logan… there’s a black SUV parked outside your house.

They weren’t waiting for the trial to end. The war had begun.

Chapter 4: The Smoking Gun

 

The afternoon session began with a tension so thick you could choke on it. The jury looked different now. They weren’t looking at me like a criminal. They were looking at the Judge like he was a suspect.

I needed to escalate. I had exposed the grades, but that was just a local scandal. I needed to connect it to Westbrook Development. I needed to prove that the school was a money-laundering front for the bribes that kept men like my father in prison.

“Defense calls William Montgomery,” I announced.

A murmur went through the crowd. William Montgomery was my father’s former law partner. He had abandoned us when Dad got arrested. He had kept his head down, kept his job, and stayed silent.

Montgomery took the stand. He looked gray and tired. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Mr. Montgomery,” I said. “You worked with my father, Alexander Hayes, on the Westbrook zoning case three years ago, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And what did my father find during discovery for that case?”

“Objection,” Sullivan said automatically, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was reading a file on her tablet—file 21-455. Her face was a mask of shock.

“Overruled,” Crawford snapped. He wanted this over. He wanted to see if I actually had anything or if I was bluffing.

“He found irregularities,” Montgomery said softly.

“What kind of irregularities?”

“Payments. Construction contracts awarded to companies that didn’t exist. Land surveys that were falsified to hide toxic waste on residential sites.”

“And what happened when he planned to report this to the FBI?”

Montgomery swallowed hard. “He was arrested. Jury tampering charges.”

“And who provided the evidence for those charges?”

“A man named Marcus Sterling.”

“The head of security for Westbrook Development?”

“Yes.”

“The same Marcus Sterling whose daughter just had her Chemistry grade changed from an F to an A?”

The connection landed like a bomb. The jury whispered furiously.

“Mr. Montgomery,” I said, pulling a document from my folder. “Did you receive a bonus from your firm two weeks after my father was convicted?”

“I… yes.”

“Fifty thousand dollars. A retention bonus. And where did the law firm receive a sudden influx of capital from that same week?”

Montgomery closed his eyes. “Westbrook Holdings.”

“Thank you.”

I sat down. I had drawn the line. I had connected the dots.

Suddenly, the doors to the courtroom banged open.

A man in an expensive suit walked in, flanked by two other men who looked like they chewed glass for breakfast. It was Thomas Westbrook.

He shouldn’t have been there. He was a CEO, a billionaire. He usually let his lawyers handle the dirty work. But he was here. That meant he was scared.

He took a seat in the front row, right behind the prosecutor. He leaned forward and whispered something in Sullivan’s ear.

I saw Sullivan stiffen. She pulled away from him. She looked at the file on her tablet, then at Westbrook, then at me.

She stood up.

“Your Honor,” Sullivan said, her voice shaking slightly. ” The State… the State wishes to request a continuance.”

“Denied,” Crawford said. He was watching Westbrook too. “Finish this, Miss Sullivan.”

“Actually, Your Honor,” Sullivan said, turning around to face the gallery. She looked directly at Thomas Westbrook. “I have a duty to disclose exculpatory evidence.”

The room gasped. This was legal suicide. A prosecutor siding with the defendant?

“Miss Sullivan, approach the bench!” Crawford barked.

“No, Your Honor,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “I think the court needs to hear this. I just accessed the witness payment logs for the Hayes trial in 2021. The account that paid the key witness against Alexander Hayes… it matches the account that pays for the ‘school consulting fees’ at Oakridge High.”

“And whose account is it?” I asked, standing up.

Sullivan looked at me. “It’s a shell company registered to Thomas Westbrook.”

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

Westbrook stood up, his face red. “This is preposterous! I will have your job for this!”

“Sit down, sir!” The bailiff moved toward him.

“You have no authority over me!” Westbrook shouted. “Do you know who I am?”

“I know exactly who you are,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. “You’re the man who framed my father. You’re the man who bribed this Judge.”

I pointed at Crawford.

“And I have the bank transfer to prove it.”

I held up a USB drive. I didn’t actually have the Judge’s bank transfer yet—Mason was still cracking the Cayman accounts—but they didn’t know that.

Crawford looked at the USB drive. He looked at Westbrook. He looked at the cameras.

He realized the ship was sinking, and he was the captain.

“Bailiff,” Crawford said, his voice hollow. “Take Mr. Westbrook into custody for disruption of court proceedings.”

Westbrook’s eyes went wide. “Thaddeus, you idiot, if I go down, you go down!”

“Get him out of here!” Crawford screamed.

As the bailiffs wrestled a screaming billionaire out of the courtroom, I looked at Claire Sullivan. She gave me a small, terrified nod. She had just blown up her career to help me.

But it wasn’t over.

Mason text came through again.

They’re panicking. The Governor just called the Police Chief. They’re going to raid the courtroom. They’re going to seize the evidence. You need to get out. NOW.

I looked at the exits. Two uniformed officers were moving toward the doors, locking them. Not to keep people out. To keep us in.

“Your Honor,” I said. “I move for an immediate dismissal of all charges.”

“Not yet,” Crawford said. He was typing furiously on his computer. He wasn’t dismissing the case. He was deleting files.

“The police are coming,” I told Sullivan. “Not to help. To purge.”

Sullivan looked at me. “Do you have copies of the evidence?”

“Cloud backups,” I said. “But we need to survive long enough to upload the final key.”

“What key?”

“The encryption key to the Governor’s email server. Mason just found it. It proves the Governor authorized the highway contract that started all of this.”

The lights in the courtroom flickered and died.

Darkness.

Screams from the gallery.

“Get down!” Detective Callahan’s voice roared from the back.

I dove under the table just as the doors shattered inward.

Chapter 5: Darkness and Glass

 

The darkness wasn’t empty. It was filled with the sounds of chaos.

Glass crunched under heavy boots. Beams of tactical flashlights sliced through the gloom, hunting. These weren’t regular court bailiffs. These were men in tactical gear, moving with military precision. They weren’t here to arrest me. They were here to erase me.

“Under the table!” I hissed at Claire Sullivan.

The prosecutor was trembling, clutching her briefcase like a shield. She had crossed the line. She was one of us now, which meant she was a target too.

“Logan!” A rough hand grabbed my shoulder. I flinched, ready to fight, but the voice was familiar.

Detective Callahan.

“Move,” Callahan growled, staying low. “The back exit to the holding cells. My partner is holding the door. Go!”

“What about my mom?” I asked, panic flaring in my chest.

“Mason got her out. She’s safe. You’re the one with the target on your back, kid. Now move!”

We scrambled on hands and knees. Above us, I heard the shouting of the tactical team. “Secure the defendant! Secure the drive!”

“Stop right there!” a voice boomed.

A flashlight beam hit us. I froze.

Judge Crawford stood in the doorway of his chambers, lit by the tactical light. He looked terrified, but in his hand, he held a heavy brass paperweight. For a second, I thought he was going to turn us in.

Then, Crawford looked at the tactical team storming his courtroom. He looked at the wreckage of his career.

“Get out!” Crawford screamed at us. Then he threw the paperweight at the nearest light, smashing it. “Hey! Over here! I’m the Judge!”

He drew their fire. It was a distraction.

Callahan didn’t waste it. He shoved me through the service door, dragging Sullivan behind him. We sprinted down the concrete hallway of the holding area, the sounds of the raid fading behind us but not disappearing.

“Who are they?” Sullivan gasped, kicking off her heels to run faster.

“State Troopers,” Callahan said grimly, pushing open an emergency exit that spilled us into the alleyway. “Governor’s special detail. They’re claiming a ‘terrorist threat’ to the courthouse to justify seizing all evidence.”

“We need to upload the key,” I said, fumbling for my phone. “If Mason gets the encryption key for the Governor’s emails, we can blow this wide open before they catch us.”

My phone screen lit up. Zero bars.

” signal jammers,” Callahan cursed. “They’ve locked down the grid. No cell service within three blocks.”

“We need a hardline,” I said. “Fiber optic. Somewhere they can’t jam.”

“The University,” Sullivan said, breathless. “The law library. They have a direct trunk line to the state archives. It’s shielded.”

Callahan shoved us into his unmarked sedan. “University it is. Buckle up. This is going to get bumpy.”

As we peeled out of the alley, a black SUV smashed into the dumpsters behind us. They had spotted us.

The chase was on.

Chapter 6: The Digital Siege

 

Callahan drove like a man possessed. He mounted curbs, ran red lights, and wove through oncoming traffic. In the rearview mirror, two black SUVs were gaining on us.

“Mason!” I yelled into the phone as soon as we hit a patch of signal. “We’re heading to the University library. I need you to prep the upload.”

“Logan, it’s bad,” Mason’s voice cracked over the speaker. “They’re scrubbing the servers. They’re deleting the Governor’s emails right now. If we don’t upload that key in the next ten minutes, the evidence will be gone forever.”

“Ten minutes?” Sullivan shouted from the back seat. “We’re twenty minutes away!”

“Not the way I drive,” Callahan grunted. He yanked the wheel, drifting the sedan around a corner so hard my head slammed against the window.

The SUV behind us wasn’t being subtle anymore. A gunshot shattered our rear windshield.

“They’re shooting at a prosecutor!” Sullivan screamed. “They’ve lost their minds!”

“They’re not trying to arrest us, Claire,” I said, staring at the bullet hole in the dashboard. “They’re trying to silence us. Westbrook is burning the house down.”

We screeched onto the university campus, hopping the curb and tearing across the green lawn, scattering students. Callahan slammed the brakes in front of the massive stone library.

“Go!” Callahan shouted, drawing his service weapon. “I’ll hold them off at the stairs.”

“Jack, there are six of them!” Sullivan cried.

“Go!”

I grabbed Sullivan’s hand and we sprinted up the stairs. Behind us, tires screeched, followed by the deafening cracks of gunfire. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.

We burst into the quiet library. Students looked up from their books, annoyed. They had no idea a war was being fought on their doorstep.

“Server room!” I yelled. “Basement!”

We ran past the startled librarian, down the spiral stairs to the restricted archives. I kicked the door open. Rows of humming servers greeted us.

I found a terminal and jammed the USB drive in.

ACCESS DENIED.

“Damn it!” I hit the keyboard. “It requires biometric authorization.”

Sullivan shoved me aside. “Move.”

She placed her hand on the scanner. “I’m a District Attorney. My clearance works on all state-funded archive nodes.”

ACCESS GRANTED.

I pulled up the upload interface. Mason was on the other end, ready to receive.

UPLOADING ENCRYPTION KEY… 10%…

The sound of boots on the stairs. Heavy. Fast.

“They’re here,” Sullivan whispered. She looked around for a weapon, grabbing a fire extinguisher.

30%…

The door to the server room flew open.

Marcus Sterling, Westbrook’s head of security, stood there. He held a suppressed pistol. His suit was pristine, but his eyes were dead.

“Step away from the terminal, kid,” Sterling said softly.

I didn’t move. I blocked the screen with my body.

50%…

“You shoot me,” I said, my voice trembling, “and the upload continues. You can’t stop it.”

“I can shoot the computer,” Sterling smiled. He raised the gun.

CLANG!

Claire Sullivan swung the fire extinguisher with everything she had. It smashed into Sterling’s arm. The gun went off, the bullet sparking against the server rack next to my head.

Sterling roared and backhanded Sullivan, sending her crashing into the wall. She slumped down, dazed.

He turned the gun back to me.

“Game over, Logan.”

99%…

“You’re right,” I said.

UPLOAD COMPLETE.

Chapter 7: The Eye of the Storm

 

Sterling pulled the trigger.

Click.

The gun jammed. The fire extinguisher impact had dented the slide.

Before he could clear it, a tackle hit him from the side. It was Detective Callahan, bleeding from a shoulder wound, but fighting like a demon. They crashed into the server racks, trading brutal punches.

I scrambled to the terminal. The screen was flashing green.

KEY AUTHENTICATED. ARCHIVE DECRYPTED. SENDING TO ALL MEDIA OUTLETS.

“It’s done!” I screamed.

Sterling threw Callahan off and reached for a backup weapon in his ankle holster.

“Police! Drop it!”

The room suddenly flooded with red laser sights.

We weren’t the only ones who had called for backup.

Six men in windbreakers with “FBI” emblazoned on the back stood in the doorway. They weren’t State Troopers. They weren’t local cops.

“Federal Agents!” the lead agent shouted. “Marcus Sterling, you are under arrest for conspiracy, attempted murder, and federal witness tampering.”

Sterling froze. He looked at the agents, then at the computer screen behind me. He saw the file transfer logs. CNN. The New York Times. The Department of Justice.

He dropped the gun.

I slid down the wall, the adrenaline leaving my body in a rush. I looked over at Sullivan. She was sitting up, holding her jaw, but she was smiling. A bloody, terrifying smile.

“We got him,” she whispered.

Callahan groaned from the floor, clutching his shoulder. “Kid… remind me never to give you a ride anywhere again.”

I laughed. It sounded more like a sob.

My phone buzzed. It was Mason.

Turn on the TV. Any channel.

I walked over to a monitor mounted on the wall and flicked it on.

The news anchor looked stunned.

“Breaking news. We have just received a massive data dump appearing to be from the Governor’s private server. The documents detail a ten-year conspiracy involving Westbrook Development, the District Attorney’s office, and the State Judiciary. The Governor has effectively been implicated in bribery and racketeering.”

The screen changed to a live shot of the Governor’s mansion. Federal agents were swarming the gates.

I looked at Sterling as they cuffed him.

“You should have just let me finish high school,” I said.

Chapter 8: Dawn

 

The next forty-eight hours were a blur.

The FBI interviewed me for six hours. They treated me differently than the local cops had. There was respect in their eyes. They offered me a bottle of water and asked me to explain the code I used to bypass the signal jammers.

When I finally walked out of the Federal Building, the sun was rising over Oakridge.

The air smelled different. It was crisp. Clean. The smell of old wood polish and corruption was gone.

A crowd was waiting. Reporters, yes. But also regular people. Students. Teachers. People holding signs that said “JUSTICE FOR HAYES.”

But I only had eyes for one person.

Standing by a car, looking thinner and older but standing tall, was a man in a worn grey suit.

My father.

I ran. I didn’t care about the cameras. I slammed into him, and he wrapped his arms around me, holding me so tight I couldn’t breathe.

“You crazy, brilliant kid,” Dad whispered into my hair. “You did it. You actually did it.”

My mom was there a second later, turning it into a three-way hug. We stood there for a long time, just existing as a family again. A family that had been broken and put back together with steel.

“Is it over?” Mom asked, wiping her eyes.

I looked over my shoulder. I saw Claire Sullivan giving a statement to the press, her arm in a sling. I saw Judge Crawford being led out of the courthouse in handcuffs, looking small and defeated. I saw Thomas Westbrook trying to hide his face from the cameras as he was shoved into a federal transport van.

“The case is over,” I said.

I looked at the university across the street. I looked at the law library where I had spent the last three years of my life.

“But the work?” I smiled. “I think the work is just beginning.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. A notification from TikTok popped up. Someone had commented on a video of my arrest.

TikTok University graduate?

I typed a reply.

Valedictorian.

I put the phone away and walked down the steps with my parents. I was seventeen years old. I had taken down a billionaire, a judge, and a governor.

I had a lot of studying to do. After all, I had a real law degree to get.

THE END.