Post by Khloe on Oct 11, 2024 23:17:31 GMT -5
1.
The body lay in the gutter, bathed in the sickly glow of the streetlight. Khloe Cox stepped into the alley, the rain tapping on her leather coat like a ghost’s fingers. She knew the routine by heart—photographs, markers, measurements—none of which would ever capture the reality of what was before her.
The others were talking. The uniforms, forensics. Their words drifted to her, but none of them mattered. Not right now.
Another one, she thought, crouching beside the corpse. She examined the deep gashes, precise and cruel, a signature that was becoming all too familiar.
Who are you, and why are you so angry?
Khloe’s eyes traced the jagged lines carved into the victim’s chest, the red smear of blood painting the alley floor. It was brutal. Messy. But the killer’s hand was steady. This wasn’t a crime of passion—it was something colder.
He wants us to know, she mused, taking in the scene. He wants to leave his mark. He’s playing with us.
A cold gust swept through, carrying the unmistakable stench of fresh blood, thick and metallic in the air.. The smell turned her stomach, but Khloe didn’t flinch. She couldn’t. Someone needed to be clear-headed.
Her eyes scanned the body again. There was something new this time, something different from the others. The killer had left a mark, carved into the flesh near the victim’s collarbone. It looked random at first glance, a jagged swirl, but Khloe’s instincts told her otherwise.
It’s deliberate, she thought. A signature? No, a symbol. She traced the air just above it with a gloved finger, feeling the pull of something old, something buried deep in her subconscious.
She’d seen something like this before, years ago, in a case file from an occult murder long dismissed by the higher-ups as the work of a lunatic. But this felt…connected.
2.
Khloe sat at her desk, the dim light from the streetlamp outside casting long shadows across the room. The file on the “Go Fetch” killer lay open in front of her, photographs scattered like pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit. The name came from the erratic nature of the killings—brutal, precise, yet all with one common thread: the sense that the murderer was following orders.
Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of her notebook, thoughts spiraling deeper into the darkness of the case. The killer wasn’t random. He—or she—wasn’t acting on impulse. There was a method to the madness, but more than that, there was control.
What kind of person can demand this? Khloe thought, staring at the crime scene photos. To turn a person into a weapon, to command them to kill as if they were nothing more than a puppet on a string?
She scribbled a few notes in the margins of the report. There was a pattern, a strange consistency in the way the victims were chosen: isolated, lonely, unnoticed by society. The perfect victims to disappear. But the killer? There was something off about him—or maybe them. She wasn’t convinced this was just one person anymore. Not with the escalating precision.
Khloe leaned back in her chair, her hand moving to her throat instinctively, where her voice used to be. She knew all about control, about power taken from you and the quiet rage that followed. But this… this was something darker. Whoever was behind this had power beyond mere manipulation. They were pushing the killer’s hand, but for what?
Her eyes drifted to the symbol she had traced earlier, the mark left on the most recent victim. It was the only direct communication the killer had given. A message. But from whom?
Who are you doing this for? she thought, her mind racing. The killer wasn’t acting alone, that much was clear. But what kind of force could take control of someone so completely, strip them of their will and turn them into a murderer? Fear? Blackmail? No… it felt deeper. More absolute.
It’s like they’re not even killing for themselves anymore. Her thoughts echoed in the quiet of her office. Like someone—or something—owns them.
She stared down at her notes.
What kind of power could command someone to kill, over and over, without hesitation? And how do you stop something you can’t even see?
There was only one thing she knew for certain. She was no longer chasing just a murderer. She was chasing whoever was pulling the strings.
3.
Khloe unlocked the door quietly, hoping not to wake Evelyn. The soft creak of the hinge, however, betrayed her, and as she stepped into the dimly lit apartment, she saw her wife sitting at the dining table, her fingers resting on an open book. The warm glow of a lamp barely touched the shadows around her.
“You’re late again,” Evelyn said, her voice soft but weary. She didn’t look up from the page, though Khloe knew she wasn’t reading it.
Khloe removed her coat, the weight of the case hanging heavy on her shoulders. She moved to the table, slipping into the chair across from Evelyn. The silence between them was familiar, but lately, it had felt heavier, like an unspoken chasm that neither knew how to bridge.
Evelyn finally glanced up, her eyes searching Khloe’s face. “Is it the same case? The one you can’t talk about?”
Khloe nodded, reaching for the notepad she kept nearby. It was her way of communicating at home, a quick scribble of thoughts instead of the prolonged internal monologues she relied on at work. It’s getting worse, she wrote, her handwriting quick, jagged, a reflection of her unsettled mind.
Evelyn sighed, her gaze dropping to the words. She closed the book in front of her and stood, walking toward the kitchen. “I know how important this is to you, Khloe. I do.” The clink of glass followed, as she poured herself a drink. “But sometimes it feels like I’m competing with your job. And I’m losing.”
Khloe’s heart tightened at the words. She wanted to reach out, to explain that the case had consumed her, not because she wanted it to but because it needed her focus. There was something bigger at play—something she didn’t fully understand yet—and until she did, the work couldn’t stop.
But how could she explain that with a notepad? How could she tell her wife that the darkness she faced every day had seeped into her bones, leaving her with nothing to give at the end of the night?
Evelyn leaned against the counter, her eyes softening as she looked back at Khloe. “You know I love you. I’ve always admired how you throw yourself into your work, how dedicated you are. But…” She paused, searching for the right words. “You’re not the same. Not since—” She hesitated, the sentence hanging in the air like a heavy cloud, neither of them willing to touch it.
Khloe felt the familiar grip at her throat, the tightening that came every time she thought back to the moment that had taken her voice. It was an image she couldn’t escape, something she had seen that had ripped the words from her permanently. A glimpse of something that even now, she couldn’t fully process, let alone share.
She stood, walking over to Evelyn, her hand finding her wife’s in a silent plea for forgiveness. But the truth was, Khloe didn’t know if she could promise anything. She couldn’t promise to leave the case behind, or to stop obsessing over the details that haunted her. All she could do was be there, in this moment, and hope that was enough for now.
Evelyn squeezed her hand, offering a tired smile. “Just… don’t forget I’m here, okay? I want to help, but you have to let me in sometimes.”
Khloe nodded, her heart aching with the weight of things left unsaid. She scribbled one last note on the pad: I love you. I’m trying.
Evelyn smiled softly, through her eyes betrayed a lingering sadness. “I know. Just don’t lose yourself in the process.”
4.
Khloe stared at the wall of photographs and notes that had become her second home, piecing together the fragments of the case that consumed her. The darkness of the apartment closed in around her, but the dim light from the lamp flickered like hope—a reminder that she was getting closer to the truth. The symbol had become an obsession, and with each passing day, it felt like it was pulling her deeper into something sinister.
She had tracked the killer to a rundown motel on the outskirts of the city, a place where the walls whispered secrets and the air thickened with despair. Anticipation twisted in her gut as she pulled into the parking lot, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. This wasn’t just another victim; it was a step toward unmasking the puppet master pulling the strings of chaos.
As she approached the door of Room 203, she knocked firmly. The sound echoed in the stillness of the hallway, a demand for attention. She knocked again, louder this time, impatience simmering beneath her calm exterior.
After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open to reveal a scruffy-looking man, his eyes wide with surprise and something resembling recognition. “You’re her, aren’t you?” he said, backing away from the threshold. “The detective.”
Khloe stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her instincts guiding her as she took in the disheveled room. Clothes were strewn across the floor, and the faint smell of cigarettes mixed with stale food. It was a place filled with despair—a perfect reflection of the mind of the man standing before her.
She moved closer, her eyes fixed on him, and he shifted nervously under her gaze. He seemed to realize she wouldn’t speak; she never did. Instead, she pulled out her notebook, flipping to a clean page, and quickly wrote, “I need answers.”
He glanced down at the words, swallowing hard. “I didn’t kill anyone!” he exclaimed, the desperation in his voice clear. “I swear! I was just… following orders.”
Khloe’s heart raced at his words, and she wrote again, “Orders from who?” Her pen moved quickly, driven by urgency.
“From the group,” he stammered, stepping further back as if trying to escape her probing gaze. “They said they were protecting us, that the world needed to be cleansed. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
The revelation sent a chill through Khloe. The zealot before her was nothing more than a pawn, a cog in a machine much larger than himself. She scribbled furiously, “Show me.”
“They never revealed themselves,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “They just gave us the targets, the marks. It was all about obedience… about faith.”
With those words, everything clicked into place for Khloe. This man was part of something insidious—a cabal operating in the shadows, and he was merely a tool in their sick game. She glanced around the room, spotting a crumpled piece of paper on the table, one she had overlooked in her initial assessment. It bore the same symbol she had been tracing—the one that haunted her thoughts.
The evidence she needed was within reach, but it was no longer just about this killer; it was about unraveling the web that ensnared him. She turned back to the zealot, determination hardening her resolve. “You’re going to help me bring them down.”
His eyes narrowed, a flicker of realization crossing his features. “I can’t—”
Khloe interrupted him, her fingers flying over the notebook. “You already have. Now it’s time to finish this.”
As she cuffed him and led him out of the room, the dread of the truth settled in her bones. This was just the beginning. The cabal’s influence loomed over everything, a dark force waiting to be exposed.
Back in her office, Khloe spread out the new evidence before her, her mind racing. There had to be a way to connect the dots, to bring the rest of them to justice. As she rifled through the files, her gaze fell on an old photograph—a gathering of faces, all smiling, all unaware of the darkness that lay beneath.
Then her breath caught in her throat. One face stood out from the rest, an unsettling familiarity sending chills down her spine. It was someone she had known, someone she had trusted.
“It’s her.”
The revelation hung in the air, a promise of the battles yet to come.
FIN
Khloe stood in a dimly lit room, the shadows of the walls pressing close around her. In the center of the space, a heavy, iron scale hung suspended from chains, its balance teetering ever so slightly. On one side, a photograph of Donnovan Strasmore rested smugly. The picture captured him perfectly—his arrogant smirk, the championship belt draped over his shoulder, and his eyes gleaming with a confidence that wasn’t his own. Beneath the photo lay a thick envelope labeled “Baylor,” an unspoken reminder of the hand that guided him.
Khloe stepped forward, her boots tapping softly on the concrete floor. She moved without hesitation, her face as calm as ever, though her eyes held the fire of a woman on the hunt. No words passed her lips, as they hadn’t in years, but her message was as clear as the rain-soaked streets she had walked in pursuit of justice.
On the table beside her, a stack of papers waited, each one holding something more than just ink—each one was a truth that weighed heavily in her hand, a truth that would soon outweigh everything Donnovan stood for.
She reached for the first sheet, lifting it carefully as if it were a weapon. Scrawled across the page in sharp, deliberate letters were the words “Paper Champion.” Khloe moved to the scale, laying the paper on the opposite side of Donnovan’s smug grin. The scales shifted, but not enough. The weight of his title still outweighed the truth she placed before him.
But Khloe wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
She reached for the next slip of paper. This one read “Puppet.” She placed it next to the first. The scale dipped further, beginning to lean away from Donnovan’s side, though his picture still held higher ground.
Khloe’s hand hovered over the third paper, her eyes narrowing slightly as she picked it up. The word “Baylor’s Strings” was bold, as if written with the same conviction she carried inside her. Underneath, a sketch of a marionette dangled, helpless and bound to its master’s will. She added it to the growing pile, watching as the scales began to tip. The weight of Donnovan’s title and his ties to Baylor were beginning to crumble.
The final slip was the heaviest, though it was no more than a simple piece of paper. “Justice.” The word stood alone, sharp and clean, the embodiment of everything Khloe had come to represent. She stared at it for a long moment, her heart steady and resolute. Justice would always outweigh everything else, even the loudest of champions.
She stepped forward, her movements slow but deliberate, and placed the final paper on the scale. The balance shifted dramatically, the weight of truth and justice finally crushing Donnovan’s false confidence, his photograph now low and unbalanced.
But Khloe wasn’t finished.
Returning to the table, she picked up one last piece of paper. With slow, careful strokes, she wrote her final message. The words came easily, each letter a promise of what was to come:
“Justice will speak for me.”
She lifted the paper and held it up to the camera, the message clear, unwavering. Then, without breaking her gaze, she walked back to the scale and laid the note atop the stack. The iron chains groaned under the weight, the balance now tipped completely in her favor.
Khloe turned to face the camera one last time, her eyes sharp as blades, a silent force of nature. She said nothing, but her presence was deafening. Justice was coming, and she didn’t need to speak to make it known.
With one last glance at the fallen photograph of Donnovan, Khloe walked out of the room, leaving behind the scales, the truth, and the inevitable end to come.
But there was still one more thing.
Khloe turned from the scale and made her way to the far corner of the room, her boots barely making a sound as she approached a wall shrouded in darkness. There, illuminated only by a single overhead light, was a photograph. The face staring back at her was unmistakable—Britlyn Baylor.
Brit’s smile was as cold as it was calculated, her presence looming over the entire situation like a puppet master pulling strings from the shadows. She was the one who had turned Donnovan into her enforcer, her so-called champion, a pawn in her larger game of power and manipulation.
Khloe stepped closer, her breath steady, her eyes narrowing. She studied Brit’s face, not with anger, but with something far more dangerous: certainty. The weight of the case—the weight of the match, the lies, the manipulation—was all in that image. Britlyn Baylor was the source, the architect of everything that had gone wrong.
For a long, silent moment, Khloe just stood there, staring into the eyes of the woman behind it all. The scale had been tipped tonight, but Khloe knew that the real judgment wasn’t for Donnovan. It was for Brit.
Without moving, Khloe’s hand brushed the final piece of paper she had written, now hanging from the scales behind her.
“Justice will speak for me.”
The body lay in the gutter, bathed in the sickly glow of the streetlight. Khloe Cox stepped into the alley, the rain tapping on her leather coat like a ghost’s fingers. She knew the routine by heart—photographs, markers, measurements—none of which would ever capture the reality of what was before her.
The others were talking. The uniforms, forensics. Their words drifted to her, but none of them mattered. Not right now.
Another one, she thought, crouching beside the corpse. She examined the deep gashes, precise and cruel, a signature that was becoming all too familiar.
Who are you, and why are you so angry?
Khloe’s eyes traced the jagged lines carved into the victim’s chest, the red smear of blood painting the alley floor. It was brutal. Messy. But the killer’s hand was steady. This wasn’t a crime of passion—it was something colder.
He wants us to know, she mused, taking in the scene. He wants to leave his mark. He’s playing with us.
A cold gust swept through, carrying the unmistakable stench of fresh blood, thick and metallic in the air.. The smell turned her stomach, but Khloe didn’t flinch. She couldn’t. Someone needed to be clear-headed.
Her eyes scanned the body again. There was something new this time, something different from the others. The killer had left a mark, carved into the flesh near the victim’s collarbone. It looked random at first glance, a jagged swirl, but Khloe’s instincts told her otherwise.
It’s deliberate, she thought. A signature? No, a symbol. She traced the air just above it with a gloved finger, feeling the pull of something old, something buried deep in her subconscious.
She’d seen something like this before, years ago, in a case file from an occult murder long dismissed by the higher-ups as the work of a lunatic. But this felt…connected.
2.
Khloe sat at her desk, the dim light from the streetlamp outside casting long shadows across the room. The file on the “Go Fetch” killer lay open in front of her, photographs scattered like pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit. The name came from the erratic nature of the killings—brutal, precise, yet all with one common thread: the sense that the murderer was following orders.
Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of her notebook, thoughts spiraling deeper into the darkness of the case. The killer wasn’t random. He—or she—wasn’t acting on impulse. There was a method to the madness, but more than that, there was control.
What kind of person can demand this? Khloe thought, staring at the crime scene photos. To turn a person into a weapon, to command them to kill as if they were nothing more than a puppet on a string?
She scribbled a few notes in the margins of the report. There was a pattern, a strange consistency in the way the victims were chosen: isolated, lonely, unnoticed by society. The perfect victims to disappear. But the killer? There was something off about him—or maybe them. She wasn’t convinced this was just one person anymore. Not with the escalating precision.
Khloe leaned back in her chair, her hand moving to her throat instinctively, where her voice used to be. She knew all about control, about power taken from you and the quiet rage that followed. But this… this was something darker. Whoever was behind this had power beyond mere manipulation. They were pushing the killer’s hand, but for what?
Her eyes drifted to the symbol she had traced earlier, the mark left on the most recent victim. It was the only direct communication the killer had given. A message. But from whom?
Who are you doing this for? she thought, her mind racing. The killer wasn’t acting alone, that much was clear. But what kind of force could take control of someone so completely, strip them of their will and turn them into a murderer? Fear? Blackmail? No… it felt deeper. More absolute.
It’s like they’re not even killing for themselves anymore. Her thoughts echoed in the quiet of her office. Like someone—or something—owns them.
She stared down at her notes.
What kind of power could command someone to kill, over and over, without hesitation? And how do you stop something you can’t even see?
There was only one thing she knew for certain. She was no longer chasing just a murderer. She was chasing whoever was pulling the strings.
3.
Khloe unlocked the door quietly, hoping not to wake Evelyn. The soft creak of the hinge, however, betrayed her, and as she stepped into the dimly lit apartment, she saw her wife sitting at the dining table, her fingers resting on an open book. The warm glow of a lamp barely touched the shadows around her.
“You’re late again,” Evelyn said, her voice soft but weary. She didn’t look up from the page, though Khloe knew she wasn’t reading it.
Khloe removed her coat, the weight of the case hanging heavy on her shoulders. She moved to the table, slipping into the chair across from Evelyn. The silence between them was familiar, but lately, it had felt heavier, like an unspoken chasm that neither knew how to bridge.
Evelyn finally glanced up, her eyes searching Khloe’s face. “Is it the same case? The one you can’t talk about?”
Khloe nodded, reaching for the notepad she kept nearby. It was her way of communicating at home, a quick scribble of thoughts instead of the prolonged internal monologues she relied on at work. It’s getting worse, she wrote, her handwriting quick, jagged, a reflection of her unsettled mind.
Evelyn sighed, her gaze dropping to the words. She closed the book in front of her and stood, walking toward the kitchen. “I know how important this is to you, Khloe. I do.” The clink of glass followed, as she poured herself a drink. “But sometimes it feels like I’m competing with your job. And I’m losing.”
Khloe’s heart tightened at the words. She wanted to reach out, to explain that the case had consumed her, not because she wanted it to but because it needed her focus. There was something bigger at play—something she didn’t fully understand yet—and until she did, the work couldn’t stop.
But how could she explain that with a notepad? How could she tell her wife that the darkness she faced every day had seeped into her bones, leaving her with nothing to give at the end of the night?
Evelyn leaned against the counter, her eyes softening as she looked back at Khloe. “You know I love you. I’ve always admired how you throw yourself into your work, how dedicated you are. But…” She paused, searching for the right words. “You’re not the same. Not since—” She hesitated, the sentence hanging in the air like a heavy cloud, neither of them willing to touch it.
Khloe felt the familiar grip at her throat, the tightening that came every time she thought back to the moment that had taken her voice. It was an image she couldn’t escape, something she had seen that had ripped the words from her permanently. A glimpse of something that even now, she couldn’t fully process, let alone share.
She stood, walking over to Evelyn, her hand finding her wife’s in a silent plea for forgiveness. But the truth was, Khloe didn’t know if she could promise anything. She couldn’t promise to leave the case behind, or to stop obsessing over the details that haunted her. All she could do was be there, in this moment, and hope that was enough for now.
Evelyn squeezed her hand, offering a tired smile. “Just… don’t forget I’m here, okay? I want to help, but you have to let me in sometimes.”
Khloe nodded, her heart aching with the weight of things left unsaid. She scribbled one last note on the pad: I love you. I’m trying.
Evelyn smiled softly, through her eyes betrayed a lingering sadness. “I know. Just don’t lose yourself in the process.”
4.
Khloe stared at the wall of photographs and notes that had become her second home, piecing together the fragments of the case that consumed her. The darkness of the apartment closed in around her, but the dim light from the lamp flickered like hope—a reminder that she was getting closer to the truth. The symbol had become an obsession, and with each passing day, it felt like it was pulling her deeper into something sinister.
She had tracked the killer to a rundown motel on the outskirts of the city, a place where the walls whispered secrets and the air thickened with despair. Anticipation twisted in her gut as she pulled into the parking lot, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. This wasn’t just another victim; it was a step toward unmasking the puppet master pulling the strings of chaos.
As she approached the door of Room 203, she knocked firmly. The sound echoed in the stillness of the hallway, a demand for attention. She knocked again, louder this time, impatience simmering beneath her calm exterior.
After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open to reveal a scruffy-looking man, his eyes wide with surprise and something resembling recognition. “You’re her, aren’t you?” he said, backing away from the threshold. “The detective.”
Khloe stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her instincts guiding her as she took in the disheveled room. Clothes were strewn across the floor, and the faint smell of cigarettes mixed with stale food. It was a place filled with despair—a perfect reflection of the mind of the man standing before her.
She moved closer, her eyes fixed on him, and he shifted nervously under her gaze. He seemed to realize she wouldn’t speak; she never did. Instead, she pulled out her notebook, flipping to a clean page, and quickly wrote, “I need answers.”
He glanced down at the words, swallowing hard. “I didn’t kill anyone!” he exclaimed, the desperation in his voice clear. “I swear! I was just… following orders.”
Khloe’s heart raced at his words, and she wrote again, “Orders from who?” Her pen moved quickly, driven by urgency.
“From the group,” he stammered, stepping further back as if trying to escape her probing gaze. “They said they were protecting us, that the world needed to be cleansed. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
The revelation sent a chill through Khloe. The zealot before her was nothing more than a pawn, a cog in a machine much larger than himself. She scribbled furiously, “Show me.”
“They never revealed themselves,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “They just gave us the targets, the marks. It was all about obedience… about faith.”
With those words, everything clicked into place for Khloe. This man was part of something insidious—a cabal operating in the shadows, and he was merely a tool in their sick game. She glanced around the room, spotting a crumpled piece of paper on the table, one she had overlooked in her initial assessment. It bore the same symbol she had been tracing—the one that haunted her thoughts.
The evidence she needed was within reach, but it was no longer just about this killer; it was about unraveling the web that ensnared him. She turned back to the zealot, determination hardening her resolve. “You’re going to help me bring them down.”
His eyes narrowed, a flicker of realization crossing his features. “I can’t—”
Khloe interrupted him, her fingers flying over the notebook. “You already have. Now it’s time to finish this.”
As she cuffed him and led him out of the room, the dread of the truth settled in her bones. This was just the beginning. The cabal’s influence loomed over everything, a dark force waiting to be exposed.
Back in her office, Khloe spread out the new evidence before her, her mind racing. There had to be a way to connect the dots, to bring the rest of them to justice. As she rifled through the files, her gaze fell on an old photograph—a gathering of faces, all smiling, all unaware of the darkness that lay beneath.
Then her breath caught in her throat. One face stood out from the rest, an unsettling familiarity sending chills down her spine. It was someone she had known, someone she had trusted.
“It’s her.”
The revelation hung in the air, a promise of the battles yet to come.
FIN
Khloe stood in a dimly lit room, the shadows of the walls pressing close around her. In the center of the space, a heavy, iron scale hung suspended from chains, its balance teetering ever so slightly. On one side, a photograph of Donnovan Strasmore rested smugly. The picture captured him perfectly—his arrogant smirk, the championship belt draped over his shoulder, and his eyes gleaming with a confidence that wasn’t his own. Beneath the photo lay a thick envelope labeled “Baylor,” an unspoken reminder of the hand that guided him.
Khloe stepped forward, her boots tapping softly on the concrete floor. She moved without hesitation, her face as calm as ever, though her eyes held the fire of a woman on the hunt. No words passed her lips, as they hadn’t in years, but her message was as clear as the rain-soaked streets she had walked in pursuit of justice.
On the table beside her, a stack of papers waited, each one holding something more than just ink—each one was a truth that weighed heavily in her hand, a truth that would soon outweigh everything Donnovan stood for.
She reached for the first sheet, lifting it carefully as if it were a weapon. Scrawled across the page in sharp, deliberate letters were the words “Paper Champion.” Khloe moved to the scale, laying the paper on the opposite side of Donnovan’s smug grin. The scales shifted, but not enough. The weight of his title still outweighed the truth she placed before him.
But Khloe wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
She reached for the next slip of paper. This one read “Puppet.” She placed it next to the first. The scale dipped further, beginning to lean away from Donnovan’s side, though his picture still held higher ground.
Khloe’s hand hovered over the third paper, her eyes narrowing slightly as she picked it up. The word “Baylor’s Strings” was bold, as if written with the same conviction she carried inside her. Underneath, a sketch of a marionette dangled, helpless and bound to its master’s will. She added it to the growing pile, watching as the scales began to tip. The weight of Donnovan’s title and his ties to Baylor were beginning to crumble.
The final slip was the heaviest, though it was no more than a simple piece of paper. “Justice.” The word stood alone, sharp and clean, the embodiment of everything Khloe had come to represent. She stared at it for a long moment, her heart steady and resolute. Justice would always outweigh everything else, even the loudest of champions.
She stepped forward, her movements slow but deliberate, and placed the final paper on the scale. The balance shifted dramatically, the weight of truth and justice finally crushing Donnovan’s false confidence, his photograph now low and unbalanced.
But Khloe wasn’t finished.
Returning to the table, she picked up one last piece of paper. With slow, careful strokes, she wrote her final message. The words came easily, each letter a promise of what was to come:
“Justice will speak for me.”
She lifted the paper and held it up to the camera, the message clear, unwavering. Then, without breaking her gaze, she walked back to the scale and laid the note atop the stack. The iron chains groaned under the weight, the balance now tipped completely in her favor.
Khloe turned to face the camera one last time, her eyes sharp as blades, a silent force of nature. She said nothing, but her presence was deafening. Justice was coming, and she didn’t need to speak to make it known.
With one last glance at the fallen photograph of Donnovan, Khloe walked out of the room, leaving behind the scales, the truth, and the inevitable end to come.
But there was still one more thing.
Khloe turned from the scale and made her way to the far corner of the room, her boots barely making a sound as she approached a wall shrouded in darkness. There, illuminated only by a single overhead light, was a photograph. The face staring back at her was unmistakable—Britlyn Baylor.
Brit’s smile was as cold as it was calculated, her presence looming over the entire situation like a puppet master pulling strings from the shadows. She was the one who had turned Donnovan into her enforcer, her so-called champion, a pawn in her larger game of power and manipulation.
Khloe stepped closer, her breath steady, her eyes narrowing. She studied Brit’s face, not with anger, but with something far more dangerous: certainty. The weight of the case—the weight of the match, the lies, the manipulation—was all in that image. Britlyn Baylor was the source, the architect of everything that had gone wrong.
For a long, silent moment, Khloe just stood there, staring into the eyes of the woman behind it all. The scale had been tipped tonight, but Khloe knew that the real judgment wasn’t for Donnovan. It was for Brit.
Without moving, Khloe’s hand brushed the final piece of paper she had written, now hanging from the scales behind her.
“Justice will speak for me.”
