Ch.6: The Warning Shot

Dr. Aris didn't let me leave with the thermometer reading. He didn't have to. I had the number burned into my brain.

**84.2.**

The number that turned a murder into a conspiracy.

I sat in the back of an automated taxi, the rain streaking the windows, my thumb hovering over the *Draft Motion* icon on my tablet. The vehicle hummed through the slick streets of the lower district, where the neon signs were broken and the steam vents hissed like dying animals.

I wasn't just filing a motion to dismiss. I was filing a declaration of war.

*Motion to Suppress Evidence: Autopsy Report 894-Delta. Grounds: Falsification of Time of Death.*

If I filed this, the trial would pause. The court would be forced to order a second, independent autopsy. The dry wounds would be discovered. The lividity patterns would be documented. The entire prosecution narrative—drunk billionaire kills innocent kid—would unravel.

Julian Vane would walk.

But if I filed it, Sterling & Wolfe would trigger the bar complaint. I’d lose my license. I’d lose my career.

I looked at the photo of Mia on my phone screen. Her terrified eyes stared back at me.

If I didn't file it, Vane would kill her. If I did file it, Sterling would ruin me, but Mia might live.

It wasn't a choice. It was math.

I hit *Save Draft*. I needed to print the motion, physically sign it, and walk it into the Clerk’s office at 8 AM sharp. I needed to blindside Halloway before he had his morning coffee.

The taxi jerked to a stop. "Destination reached: The Hive, Sector 4."

My building was a converted shipping container stack that leaned precariously over the polluted canal. It was cheap, loud, and anonymous. Exactly what I could afford.

I paid the fare with the last credits on my account and stepped out into the puddle-choked alley. The streetlights here had been shot out weeks ago. The only light came from the flickering red sign of the noodle bar downstairs.

I climbed the four flights of rusted stairs, my keys jangling in my hand. I was exhausted. My bones felt like lead pipes. All I wanted was a shower to wash the smell of the morgue off my skin and four hours of sleep before the war began.

I reached my door. Unit 402.

It was open.

Not just unlocked. The lock cylinder had been drilled out. The metal door hung slightly ajar, swinging gently in the draft from the hallway.

My stomach dropped.

*Mia?*

I pushed the door open with my foot, the scalpel from my pocket already in my hand.

"Mia?" I called out, my voice tight.

Silence.

I stepped inside and flipped the light switch.

The apartment was destroyed.

My mattress was slashed open, stuffing exploding like gray snow across the floor. My dresser drawers were pulled out and overturned. My few books were torn apart, pages fluttering in the breeze from the broken window. The small kitchenette was a graveyard of shattered ceramic and dented cans.

They had been thorough. They hadn't just looked for something; they had looked *through* everything. Every vent cover was unscrewed. Every floorboard was pried up.

I rushed to the small safe bolted under the sink. It was open. Empty.

My birth certificate. My mother’s ring. The encrypted drive with my old audit files. Gone.

"No," I whispered, dropping to my knees. "No, no, no."

It wasn't a robbery. Robbers don't take forensic audit files. Robbers don't slash pillows looking for microchips.

This was a search warrant executed by ghosts.

I stood up, spinning around, looking for... what? A note? A sign?

Then I saw the kitchen table.

It was the only thing in the room that hadn't been overturned.

Sitting in the exact center of the table was a clear plastic bag. Inside was a white brick of powder.

Heroin. Pure, uncut, street-grade heroin. Enough to put me away for twenty years under the Obsidian Circuit's mandatory minimums.

Next to the bag was a single blue glove. A police-issue latex glove.

My breath hitched. They hadn't just tossed the place. They had staged a crime scene.

A siren wailed in the distance. Getting closer.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Of course. Step one: Plant the drugs. Step two: Call in the anonymous tip. Step three: The raid.

I grabbed the bag. It was heavy. I ran to the toilet.

*Flush it. Flush it now.*

I tore the plastic open. White powder spilled into the bowl. I hit the handle.

The water swirled. The powder dissolved.

The siren was loud now. Right outside the building.

I flushed again. And again.

I ran back to the kitchen, grabbing the empty bag and the glove. I shoved them into the garbage disposal and hit the switch. The machine roared, grinding the plastic into oblivion.

Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy boots. A lot of them.

"Police! Open up!"

They were already here.

I stood in the center of my ruined apartment, chest heaving, hands shaking. I looked around. Had I missed anything? Was there another bag under the couch? In the vents?

The door burst open.

Three tactical officers swarmed in, rifles raised.

"Hands! Let me see your hands!"

I raised my hands. "I'm a lawyer! This is an illegal entry!"

The lead officer lowered his weapon slightly. He wore a mask, but I recognized the eyes. It was the same captain I had cross-examined in my head a thousand times. Captain Miller. The one with the gambling debts.

He looked around the destroyed apartment. He looked at the slashed mattress. He looked at the empty table where the heroin had been.

He frowned.

"Clear," he barked into his comms.

He walked up to me, stepping over a broken lamp. He got right in my face. He smelled like cheap tobacco and arrogance.

"Rough night, Counselor?" he sneered.

"Someone broke in," I said, my voice steady despite the terror vibrating in my knees. "I just got home. I was about to call you."

"Is that right?" Miller looked at the kitchen sink. He walked over and sniffed the air. He looked at the garbage disposal.

He knew. He knew I had flushed it.

He turned back to me, his eyes cold. He didn't find the drugs, which meant he couldn't arrest me. Not tonight.

"We got a report of a disturbance," Miller said, holstering his gun. "But it looks like you just have a pest problem."

He leaned in close.

"Be careful, Vance. This neighborhood isn't safe. Accidents happen all the time. Fires. Overdoses. Falls from high windows."

"Get out," I whispered.

Miller laughed. He signaled his men. They filed out, leaving the door hanging on one hinge.

I stood there in the wreckage of my life. They had taken my past. They had threatened my future.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out with trembling fingers.

A text from an unknown number. No name. Just a message that chilled me to the bone.

'Stick to the script, Counselor. Or the next search warrant is real.'