“All rise! The Supreme Court of the State of New York, County of New York, Criminal Term, is now back in session. The Honorable Judge Ashton Blackwell presiding,” announced the court officer in a loud, stern voice.

Everyone in the courtroom stood as a side door opened and a man in a black robe entered. Judge Blackwell, older and nearing retirement, walked briskly to the bench and surveyed the packed gallery. Before him were two tables: the prosecution to his right and the defense with Arthur D. Stone on his left. Today the courtroom was more crowded than usual, for this was the day the final verdict would be delivered to Arthur D. Stone, a notorious mob boss.

“Please be seated,” Judge Blackwell said as he glanced at the documents on his desk. “Mr. Stone, please rise.”

Stone rose, his expression calm but edged with arrogance.

“Mr. Foreman,” the judge continued, “has the jury reached a verdict?”
“Yes, Your Honor, we have,” the foreman replied firmly.
“Please hand the verdict sheet to the court officer.”

The verdict sheet was passed to the clerk. “The clerk will publish the verdict,” Judge Blackwell instructed.

The clerk stood and read aloud:
“In the matter of the People of the State of New York versus Arthur D. Stone:

• On the charge of Murder in the First Degree, relating to seven separate victims personally killed by the defendant, we find the defendant guilty on all seven counts.

• On the charge of Murder in the First Degree, relating to forty additional murders committed by members of the Stone crime family at the direction of the defendant, we find the defendant guilty on all forty counts.

• On the charge of Conspiracy to Commit Murder, we find the defendant guilty.

• On the charge of Racketeering under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO), including ordering murders and maintaining a criminal enterprise, we find the defendant guilty.

• On the charge of Extortion, relating to the systematic intimidation and exploitation of businesses and individuals, we find the defendant guilty on twelve counts.”

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the spectators. Stone’s face remained controlled, but the smugness drained away as he turned toward his attorneys.

One of his lawyers stood. “Your Honor, the defense requests that the jury be polled.”

Judge Blackwell ordered the clerk to poll each juror individually. One by one they confirmed the guilty verdicts.

“The jury is discharged with the sincere thanks of the Court,” the judge said, his voice steady. Then he turned to the defense table. “Counsel, any motions before sentencing?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Pursuant to CPL 330.30, we move to set aside the verdict as against the weight of the evidence,” defense counsel replied.

“Motion denied,” Judge Blackwell ruled without hesitation. “Mr. Stone, step to the podium.”

Arthur Stone walked forward a few steps, his jaw clenched.

“Mr. Stone,” the judge began, “you stand convicted of seven murders committed by your own hand, forty murders committed at your command, conspiracy to commit murder, extortion, and racketeering under RICO. The calculated brutality, premeditation, and breadth of your crimes shock the conscience of this Court and the people of this state. No mitigating factor could possibly lessen the gravity of your conduct.

“For each of the seven counts of first-degree murder you personally committed, the Court imposes a sentence of life imprisonment without parole.

“For the forty counts of first-degree murder ordered through your criminal enterprise, the Court imposes a sentence of twenty-five years to life on each count, to run consecutively.

“For the RICO conviction, this Court imposes a sentence of life imprisonment.

“For the twelve counts of extortion, the Court imposes sentences of twenty years each, to run consecutively with the above.

“In total, it is the judgment of this Court that you shall serve multiple consecutive life sentences, with an aggregate term exceeding one thousand years. You will never again walk free.”

Judge Blackwell’s voice cut like iron. “You are remanded immediately to the custody of the New York State Department of Corrections. The clerk is directed to enter judgment accordingly. Court is now adjourned.”

“All rise,” called the court officer.

Judge Blackwell left the bench and exited toward his chambers. As he passed, Arthur Stone fixed him with a cold, murderous stare, but the judge did not look back.

Arriving at his office, the judge sat down heavily in his chair, reclining slowly while letting out a long sigh. He remained like that for a while, letting the stress flow out of his body. The biggest case of his career was finally over. He looked at the clock on his desk—6:30 p.m. His grandchildren were visiting today; they should arrive around seven. He quickly gathered his belongings and walked toward the car park as fast as his aging body permitted.

At the car park, his driver and bodyguard Tyrone was already waiting, leaning near the entrance with a light novel in hand. Spotting Judge Blackwell, he lowered the book and greeted him with a smile.

“Home, Your Honor?”

“Home, Tyrone,” Judge Blackwell replied with a broad smile. “My grandkids are coming today.”
“Then we’d best hurry,” Tyrone answered, returning the grin.

As they approached their vehicle, a yellow car pulled up nearby. Before they could react, a man in a ski mask leapt out, wielding an assault rifle. He opened fire, spraying bullets at both Judge Blackwell and Tyrone. The deafening shots echoed through the parking lot as Judge Blackwell fell to the ground--.

The Stranger jolted awake.

The deafening roar of gunfire still echoed in his ears, only to fade into the faint rustle of hay. The acrid scent of gunpowder and smoke melted into the sweet smell of cooked food.

“Stranger… Mr. Stranger,” a woman’s voice came softly from behind him.

He blinked, staring at the barn wall, the rough wood grounding him in the present. Slowly he rose from the bed of hay he had made for himself.

“Stranger, I’ve brought you breakfast,” the voice called again.

Ash turned. It was Ellie, holding a tray of food.

The Stranger stood and walked toward her. She handed him the tray, staring up at his imposing height. He’s very tall, she thought, trying to sneak a look under his hood. It was too dark in the barn to see clearly, though she caught a glimpse of what looked like a white mask beneath it.

“Something wrong?” the Stranger asked.

“Umm… nothing,” Ellie stammered. “What’s your name, Stranger?”

He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Ash.”

“Ash?” Ellie repeated, the name unusual on her tongue. “N-nice to meet you, Mr. Ash.”

“Just Ash" Ash pause a bit "You’re Ellie, right?”

Ellie blinked. “How do you know?”

“Yesterday. Village meeting.” Ash said, sitting near the spot where he had slept. He glanced at the tray: a bowl of wheat porridge.

Ellie stood quietly, watching. Ash reached under his hood, pulled out a white mask, and slipped it into his shoulder bag.

“So. The meeting,” Ash said as he began to eat

“Meeting?” Ellie tilted her head.

“The one yesterday.”

“Oh… that.” Ellie’s face darkened. “The baron is imposing extra taxes on us.” She sat down, resting her chin on her knee while hugging her leg. “But the villagers think it’s just an excuse for him to snatch me away for his ‘collection.’”

Ash’s spoon paused. “Then run. Leave.”

Ellie snapped back, her voice sharp. “And let the baron unleash his wrath on the village? No way!”

Ash gave a slow nod. “Fair.” He went back to his porridge.

Ellie caught a glimpse of Ash face.“Are you from—”

“The baron,” Ash cut her off.

She flinched.

“He always does this.”

“Mmm… from what I’ve heard, yes,” Ellie admitted softly.

“Chief report it to the viscount?” Ash asked, pulling a book and stylus from his bag.

Ellie’s eyes widened. The book was bound in leather with polished silver corners, each set with a green gem. An unfamiliar insignia gleamed in the center of the cover. It looked ancient and powerful.

“Ellie,” Ash repeated. “Chief report it?”

“Ah—um—sorry. I don’t know. Grandpa doesn’t talk about his work much.”

“Hm.” Ash flipped through a few pages.

“But he did go to meet the viscount a few weeks ago,” Ellie recalled.

“Why?” Ash asked, writing something in his book.

“It was about the tax. We had a poor harvest. Grandpa hoped to lower it.”

Ash continued to write when suddenly a shout boomed outside the barn.

“What is this? You haven’t even started collecting the tax yet!”

Ellie jumped to her feet. She was about to run to the door when Ash’s voice stopped her.

“Wait. Stay here.”

Ash rose, walked to the barn window. He cracked the window just enough to watch the scene outside, his expression unreadable. Ellie pressed closer, trembling, her breath quick and shallow. The shouting grew sharper, angrier.

"Stay down,” he murmured, his voice low and calm. “This is only the beginning.”