The sun spilled weakly through the curtains of the Hale household, its pale light painting the walls gold. Downstairs, the faint clatter of dishes hinted at Grace preparing breakfast but upstairs, Brooklyn lay sprawled on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep had come in jagged pieces.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"It's me." Ryan's voice came quietly.
Brooklyn exhaled, rolling onto her side. "Come in."
Ryan pushed the door open, stepping into the room in his usual calm way. He pulled the chair from her desk and sat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
"How you holding up?" he asked.
Brooklyn gave a half-shrug. "What do you think? People outside counting how many times I breathe. I feel like I'm on loan."
Ryan allowed a small smirk. "Loan or not, you're home. That's a win."
She didn't answer, just studied his face until he leaned closer. "Listen. I've been working and we got something."
Her eyes sharpened. "Something?"
"When Pierce issued that mission order… he wasn't alone, Right? There was a man with him, a civilian?"
Brooklyn sat up straighter, tension rippling through her shoulders. "Yeah?"
"Name's Michael Gray. We got to him last night, he was just a pawn. Someone promised him a job, manipulated to carry the folder Pierce."
For the first time in days, a flicker of relief washed over Brooklyn's face. Her lips parted, eyes widening as if the storm clouds had cracked to let a sliver of light through. "I knew it," she whispered. "I knew Pierce was behind all of this."
Ryan gave a measured nod. "Yeah, we also pulled Gray's laptop. Maya's working on it, let's hope she can get something to pin Pierce to this."
Brooklyn sat back, gripping her knees. "Yeah, then maybe… maybe this nightmare ends."
Before Ryan could reply, footsteps echoed up the stairs. A firm knock followed and without waiting, Mr. Jones let himself in.
"We need to talk." he said, closing the door behind him.
Brooklyn folded her arms. "That doesn't sound good."
"It isn't." Jones set the case on the desk, opening it with a snap. Files and papers spread out like a grim feast. He rubbed his temples before continuing. "I've reviewed everything again, Captain Grant. There's nothing new."
Ryan's face went pale. "And?"
"Meaning..." Jones said carefully, "my job at this point is not proving Mrs. Grant's innocence but reducing impact. I can argue for reduced sentencing, appeal to leniency."
Brooklyn blinked hard, fury bubbling under her skin. "Reduced sentencing? I didn't do anything! Why should I beg for scraps of mercy?"
Ryan's jaw tightened. "Come on, what are you saying?"
Mr. Jones exhaled, as if each word weighed more than the last. "They will use whatever angle they can. And we can use her mental health."
Brooklyn shot to her feet. "What?"
Jones raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Listen. This is the strongest argument I can build."
Her voice rose like a whip. "But I don't have mental issues!"
"I know that, Captain. But the panel doesn't need truth, they need a narrative."
Brooklyn's fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white. "So your plan is to paint me like I'm broken? Like I'm some fragile, unstable wreck who cracked under duty? That's your brilliant defense?"
Jones' mouth opened but he faltered under the blaze of her eyes.
Ryan stood slowly, placing a hand on Brooklyn's shoulder. "Jones, maybe you should..."
But Brooklyn shrugged him off, fury pouring out unchecked. "No. He comes into my house, into my room and tells me to roll over and accept chains because it's easier for him. Because the system's too big to fight. That's your job, isn't it? To fight!"
Mr. Jones held firm. "And sometimes fighting means choosing battles you can win."
Brooklyn lunged forward, shoving him hard against the wall, papers scattering to the floor. The thud echoed through the room.
Her voice trembled with rage. "I don't need you telling me I'm broken. I don't need your pity strategy. I need someone who believes me!"
"Brook..." Ryan started but she didn't stop.
Brooklyn shoved the lawyer again, harder. His briefcase toppled to the floor, the contents spilling in a chaotic heap. "Get out!"
Jones' jaw tightened, though fear flickered in his eyes. "Captain Grant..."
"I said get out!" she roared, her voice cracking with the force of it.
Ryan stepped forward, hand raised to separate them but Mr. Jones straightened his suit, gathering his case and scattered files with shaking hands.
"Very well." he said coldly, though his voice lacked conviction. "If you don't want my counsel, perhaps you don't want saving."
Brooklyn's eyes burned, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. "I don't need saving. I need justice."
Jones' lips pressed into a thin line. Without another word, he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. The echo lingered like a gunshot.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Brooklyn turned away, pressing her hands against her forehead. Her whole body shook, not from fear, but from the sheer force of her anger.
Ryan exhaled slowly, stooping to collect the stray papers the lawyer had left behind. He set them on the desk, then looked at her.
Downstairs, Grace looked up from the dining table as the heavy thud of the front door carried through the house. A few seconds later, sharp footsteps echoed across the stairs, clipped and furious. She rose just as Mr. Jones appeared, face flushed, his briefcase clutched to his chest like a shield.
"What on earth is going on?" Grace asked, confusion knitting her brows.
Jones stopped just short of the door, "Your daughter made it quite clear she doesn't want my help, so I'm out."
Before Grace could press further, he pulled open the door and strode out, the slam rattling the frames on the wall.
Grace's eyes flicked up the stairs. She didn't hesitate. Climbing quickly. Inside the room, Ryan stood near the desk, awkwardly holding a stack of disheveled papers. His gaze flicked to Grace as she entered, then back to Brooklyn, who sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands.
Grace's voice softened. "Ryan, would you… give us a moment?"
Ryan quietly set the papers down and slipped out, closing the door behind him.
Grace stepped closer, kneeling down so she was level with her daughter.
"Brooklyn." she said gently, "what happened? Why did you send Mr. Jones away?"
Brooklyn lifted her head slowly, eyes rimmed with frustration, not tears. Her voice cracked but carried iron beneath it.
"Because even with him here, I'm still going to jail. He's not fighting for me, Grace. He wants to stand in front of that higher-ups and say I'm unstable. That I'm… broken."
Her hands curled into fists against her knees. "But I'm not. I don't need him painting me as some fragile thing just to buy me pity."
Grace's throat tightened. "Sweetheart, he's trying to protect you..."
"No." Brooklyn snapped, cutting her off. "He's trying to he's just trying find the easiest way out but I don't need him, I'll handle this all by myself."
Grace reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Brooklyn's face. "You shouldn't have to carry this alone."
Brooklyn's jaw tightened. "Maybe not. But right now, I don't have a choice."
Grace drew in a breath, nodded once, then rose slowly to her feet.
"All right." she whispered. "I'll leave you be."
Without pressing further, Grace walked to the door. She paused for only a heartbeat, as if hoping her daughter might call her back, then slipped out quietly, leaving Brooklyn alone with her thoughts and her anger.