Lenka’s hand, still hovering near her mouth, dropped to her side. Her eyes, though wide, had lost their immediate terror, replaced by a cold, calculating resolve. The sudden retreat, the almost visceral rejection of the shared space, had left a hollow ache in Casimir’s chest, a dull pressure he registered even as Pav’s text message blared its warning. *Radek knows you have the file. He's not messing around.* The words twisted the ache into something sharper, a premonition of danger. He tucked the phone away, the rooftop garden's peace curdling into a memory already. He looked at Lenka, whose gaze was now fixed on the distant skyline, her posture rigid. “He knows,” Casimir stated, his voice flat. “Pav just confirmed it.” Lenka didn’t look at him. “Of course he knows. He always knows. It’s what he does.” Her tone was devoid of emotion, a practiced shield snapping back into place. “The Grendel Holdings trial begins tomorrow. This is his final play.” She turned, her movements precise, walking towards the garden’s exit. “Thank you for… this.” The ‘this’ was left hanging, undefined, a fragile thing that had almost been. “We need to prepare.” The atrium, the next morning, hummed with a different energy than Casimir had ever seen. Television crews jostled for position outside the massive bronze doors of Chamber One. Reporters spoke in hushed, urgent tones into microphones. Inside, the chamber was a stark space of dark oak and grey stone, already packed. Every bench in the observers' rows was taken. The air smelled of damp wool and ozone, humid despite the cooling grates overhead. Casimir sat behind Lenka at the state's table, observing the subtle shifts in posture, the nervous hand gestures across the floor. Radek, seated across the aisle, wore an infuriatingly placid expression, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he surveyed the gallery. Justice Delacroix, her grey hair pulled into an austere knot, called the bench to order. Lenka began her opening remarks, her tone clear and resonant, laying out the state's case against Grendel Holdings with mathematical precision. She mapped the shell companies, the false ledgers, tracing the flow of hidden funds. Her primary insider, Karel Jelinek, was slated to supply the link connecting Radek’s client directly to the fraud. Radek rose for his cross-examination of the opening deponent, a mid-tier accountant. He was dismissive, almost bored, until he paused, holding up a sheet of paper. “Your Honor,” Radek boomed, “the defense has just received—quite providentially, I might add—records that cast a significant shadow on the integrity of the state's star source.” He placed the paper under an overhead projector. The image filled the screen: a signed affidavit from Karel, dated two years prior, admitting to an unrelated embezzlement ring. Worse, the text showed Karel claiming he had been coerced by Lenka’s department to fabricate testimony in an earlier corporate trial. A collective intake of breath rippled through the benches. Murmurs exploded into noise. Lenka went utterly still, her fingertips pressing flat against the varnished wood. Casimir saw her knuckles whiten. He leaned closer, his murmur barely carrying over the bench. “He wouldn’t confess to that.” Radek continued, “This filing demolishes his credibility and suggests gross overreach by the state. We move to strike his depositions entirely and request an inquiry into the state's methods.” Murmurs swelled across the gallery. Lenka’s color drained until her skin matched the grey stone pillars. Her eyes shifted toward Casimir, unsettled and questioning, before darting back to the bench. Delacroix struck her gavel three times, ordering an immediate recess. The chamber doors swung open, admitting the press corps. Microphones thrust past the partition, flashes glaring against the mahogany. “Counselor Hradek, did you intimidate him?” “Is this file authentic?” “Are you resigning your post?” Casimir rose, a dull hum filling his ears. The perimeter of his vision dimmed to grainy tunnel sight. A hot, sharp throb pounded against the backs of his eyes. Lenka stood frozen beside her leather briefcase, shoulders drawn up rigid against the shouting crowd, her usual poise fractured into raw uncertainty. Heat flared behind Casimir's breastbone, pulling his breath short. Copper coated the roof of his mouth. Touching his upper lip, his fingers came away wet with dark red. He turned his shoulder to block the reporters' lenses, stepping between her and the microphones. “Lenka,” he whispered, fighting the sudden swimming in his head. “The confession is manufactured. We know he was being extorted, not pressured by you.” He swallowed down the coppery spit. “The photo from the records room. The one showing him with the Astralcorp director. That breaks their narrative. We have to release it.” She looked at him, her eyes wide, still clouded with devastation. “Leak it? To whom? What good will that do now?” “An outside reporter. Pav knows someone who will print it without interference. It will expose Radek's falsified papers before the afternoon session.” Casimir took out his phone, his fingers stiffening. “Pav is waiting by the west portico.” He found Pav’s number, his head spinning. The world tilted around him. He pressed send, his other hand still pressed firmly against his nose, hoping the blood didn’t show. Pav answered on the second ring, his voice tight with concern. “Casimir? What’s happening in there? They’re saying Lenka’s finished!” “Listen to me, Pav,” Casimir rasped, keeping his tone flat. “Remember the file photograph from the cellar? The meeting with the Astralcorp director?” “Yeah, the one you said was dynamite,” Pav replied, his tone immediately serious. “It is. Deliver it to your contact at the city gazette. Tell them Radek built his ambush on a fabricated statement. Print the photograph across the evening edition.” Casimir leaned his forehead against his forearm, every word costing him a pulse of nausea. “Get it out before midday.” He ended the call, his hand dropping. Three drops of crimson spotted the stone flooring. Swaying, he slipped through the low side gate while bailiffs corralled the reporters. He navigated the service stairs, his boots scuffing the concrete as vertigo tilted the banister beneath his grip. In a maintenance nook behind the HVAC ducts, his knees folded. He slid down against the unfinished wall, breath dragging through dry teeth. His vision narrowed into dark rings. Pulling the phone back out with trembling knuckles, he dialed a private line. “Dr. Rostova,” he said, his voice paper-thin. “It’s Casimir. The budget ran out.”

Trial by Ambush