Chaos is just a mess that hasn't been tidied up yet.
I was stretched out, still messing with the old clock parts from the last case, when the memo landed on my desk. It was cold, official, and totally ridiculous: I was suspended. The charge? Destroying evidence and lying to the government.
It was a trap, and a genius one. A powerful rival of the politician I'd exposed had created fake computer files. These files showed I used my DA access to secretly delete the real proof during the last murder investigation. My whole world is built on perfect data, and they were using fake perfect data to tear me down.
They weren't trying to just jail me; they were trying to ruin my reputation so my past solutions could be questioned.
My team backed me up, but their loyalty couldn't beat the clean, digital lie on the screen. I needed a counter-system.
Mr. Kaito, my boss, was panicking. He told me I had to hire a defense lawyer right away from a pre-approved list. I was facing prison, and he was giving me homework.
I took the list. I didn't care about legal drama or fame; I needed a necessary resource. I ran a quick, random internal test—something completely non-emotional, like picking the shortest name on the page.
My finger landed on: Julian Vance.
"This one," I said, handing the paper back. The decision was final. I wasn't choosing a friend or a savior; I was acquiring a professional tool to solve a new, highly inconvenient problem.
The first meeting with Julian Vance was in a quiet conference room. He was a performance: handsome, cool, and an extroverted analyst who used people and law as his instruments.
"You selected me quickly," he noted, his voice smooth. He didn't ask if it was random; he just accepted the speed as a fascinating data point. "Most clients facing suspension take days to choose. You took ten minutes. What was your criteria?"
"Efficiency," I confirmed, pushing the charge sheet toward him. "Your success rate is the highest. Begin your analysis."
He didn't flinch at my coldness. Instead, he seemed instantly fascinated by the details of my downfall. "The evidence against you is too perfect, Analyst," he noted, studying the fake digital logs. "It mirrors your own clean logic. This wasn't a messy crime; it was a perfect procedural attack."
Julian believed me instantly. He didn't ask how I felt; he asked for my process.
"We are not looking at the fake logs," he instructed. "We are looking at you. If someone wanted to frame you perfectly, they would have to know your exact submission habits. I need the security timeline of your submission routine for the Poisoned Wine case. When did you finalize the file? Which specific server did you route it through? Down to the second."
I went through my final steps: the time-stamp on the submission, the routing of the email, and the specific server I used. Julian took my raw, cold data and immediately translated it into legal logic.
He paused, looking up from my notes with a chilling professional curiosity. "Before we build your defense, I need one more piece of data for the record. Your colleagues call you 'The Analyst.' The charge sheet has a first name. What do I call the person I'm defending?"
I looked at him—the first person in years to ask my name without demanding it. "Elysia," I replied.
"Elysia," he repeated, the name tasting like a new and fascinating metric on his tongue. He smiled, a cold flash of victory. "Good. Elysia, your internal timestamp is proof. We will argue that any tampering must have happened after your data left your control—a perfect legal firewall."
While I analyzed the digital logs for the exact moment the enemy code was injected, Julian used his team to put social and political pressure on the server farm that handled the DA's data storage. He used legal force and charm to get access to security records my own department was too slow to provide.
We worked for three days in that quiet room. He would push me for a precise fact, and then instantly use his legal network to find the real-world proof. He proved that the false logs could only have been injected by a third party who hacked the primary server one hour after my audit left my desk. I found the flaw in the enemy's code; Julian found the legal loophole to destroy the case.
He didn't just save me; he perfectly executed my logic in the messy, human world of politics and law. He successfully destroyed the case, and the charges were dropped. I was free.
The case was closed, but the problem—Julian Vance—was not.
He was obsessed with me. My analytical detachment, my refusal to show fear or thanks, my complete lack of emotional response to his brilliance, was the greatest puzzle he had ever encountered.
For the next month and a half, I avoided him, trying to return to my old routine. But the scrutiny after the frame-up was too high. I decided the most logical path to resume efficiency was total separation from the DA's politics. I drafted my resignation letter.
However, when I tried to submit it, the system flagged an error.
I discovered that Julian Vance, using his legal victory and his firm's considerable political influence, hadn't just saved me; he had strategically restructured my position within the DA's office during the time I was fighting the charges.
The new memo arrived on my desk two days later. The DA's office had approved a new Consultancy Division for high-profile crime analysis. The proposal was structurally flawless, logically sound, and utterly necessary for the DA's long-term efficiency.
I was officially transferred. My new department head was Julian Vance.
My resignation attempt failed. According to the new departmental structure he created, my role now required the direct approval of the Division Head for any transfer or departure.
He didn't ask for my permission to work with him; he just used the rules of the system to make it happen. He had trapped me, perfectly, within the logic of my own professional world.