Page 124 of Corrupt

I felt sick.

I looked at the defence solicitor, a ridiculous, desperate urge tightening in my chest. Say something. Do something. Stand up and tear this apart the way I knew it could be torn apart. Remind them that under investigation was not charged. That implication was not evidence.

That the man in the dock was not a murderer.

“Your Worships, my client strenuously denies any involvement in the matter referenced by my learned friend. He has not been charged in connection with that death, and it would be inappropriate—”

“Inappropriate,” the prosecutor said mildly, “but not irrelevant.”

The chair raised a hand. “One at a time.”

The defence pressed on. “Mr Slade has strong ties to the community. He has family in London. He is willing to submit to strict bail conditions. Curfew, tagging, surrender of travel documents—”

“Your Worships,” the prosecutor rose again, smooth as glass, “the Crown submits that no set of conditions would adequately mitigate the risks in this case. The seriousness of the offence, the scale of the alleged operation as indicated by intelligence, and the ongoing homicide investigation combine to make this an unsuitable case for bail.”

Homicide…I looked at him then.

Razor. In the dock. Richie. With his head bowed, hands clasped loosely in front of him, cuffs hidden by the angle of his body. He hadn’t moved since the submissions began. Hadn’t reacted. As if this were being done around him rather than to him.

I couldn’t tell what that posture meant.

Acceptance.

Resignation.

Control.

Or maybe it was simply the only way he knew how to survive this. By not giving them anything.

My chest ached, sharp and furious all at once. I wanted to cross the room, shake him, and demand answers. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and pull him out of that dock by force of will alone. And beneath it all, like a poison threading through everything else, came the guilt.

If he’d stayed in my bed.

If I’d fought harder.

If I’d said the words he’d been waiting for, that my world could make room for him, that I could, maybe he wouldn’t be standing there now.

The bench leant together, heads close, murmuring just long enough to make hope cruel.

Then, the chair straightened. “Mr Slade, we have considered the submissions. Given the nature of the allegations, the risk factors identified, and the ongoing investigation referenced by the prosecution, we are not satisfied that bail can be granted at this stage.”

A pause. Formal. Final.

“You are remanded in custody.”

I was on my feet before I was aware of moving, the chair shrieking back across the floor, a sound far too loud and yet utterly meaningless in a space that had collapsed to a single point of impact.

Razor lifted his head.

It was the first time he’d done so since being brought in, shoulders squared, jaw locked, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the bench as if he’d been bracing for this exact moment. His gaze swept the courtroom once. Detached. Searching. Then he found me. And I saw the breath he took. The subtle rise of his chest. The way his composure fractured just enough to let the rawness slip through.

Those eyes held me the same way they always had. As if I were the only solid thing left. As if the law, the dock, the officers at his back were all secondary to whether I was still there. Still looking. Still seeing him.

It was the same look.

Long before charges and procedure. Long before oak panels and robed authority. In a dark alley months ago, under glittering light and bad decisions, he’d looked at me exactly like that. Trying to be hard, desperate not to be. Guarded, violent, aching to be recognised for something other than what he was made to be.

He didn’t say a word.