It only took a minute. The elevator chimed, and the door opened to reveal a tall man with striking features and the unmistakable poise of wealth inherited, not earned. Tobias Blackwell, father of the accused. A man who wore his suits like they were armour and carried his last name like a loaded weapon. A thick layer of pheromones clung to him like a shield.

Eamon stood, but did not offer his hand.

“Mr Blackwell,” he said flatly.

Tobias smiled, all teeth and condescension. “Eamon. You’re certainly growing into your father’s reputation.”

Eamon gestured toward the two leather armchairs across from his desk. “I’ll skip the small talk. What do you want?”

Tobias sat, crossing one leg over the other with the ease of a man who was used to being welcomed anywhere.

“I’m here,” he began smoothly, “to ask, politely, that you recuse yourself from the Desrosiers case.”

Eamon’s golden eyes narrowed.

“And if I don’t?”

The older man’s smile didn’t falter. “Then I imagine both your professional and personal life may get unnecessarily… complicated. I’d hate for your firm to lose other high-value clients. Or for your private life to be dragged through the courts.”

Ah. There it was. The threat. Delivered with satin gloves and poison underneath.

Eamon leaned forward slowly, bracing his elbows on the desk.

“You’re threatening me,” he said coolly.

“I’m offering you the kind of deal people in your position dream of.” Tobias stood again. “I’m sure you understand the stakes. My son has a bright future. It would be a shame to see it tarnished over a… misunderstanding.”

Eamon rose too. The fury in his blood was quiet, precise.

“You should go.”

Tobias only adjusted his cufflinks. “This isn’t over.”

“No,” Eamon said, voice cold, controlled, lethal. “It isn’t.”

Tobias gave a tight nod and walked out, not looking back.

When the door clicked shut, Eamon didn’t move for a long moment. Then he picked up the Desrosiers file again, this time with a purpose.

He knew now.

This wouldn’t be just a legal battle.

It would be war.

 As the door clicked shut behind Tobias Blackwell, Eamon remained perfectly still. His reflection glinted in the dark window — unmoving, but far from calm.

A flick of his wrist turned the lock on his office door. He walked back to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer, which he rarely touched. From it, he withdrew a thick black binder marked S-Clients (RED). These were cases flagged as high-risk. Cases where people tried to bury evidence, intimidate witnesses, or use money as a weapon.

He opened to a fresh page and wrote:

BLACKWELL INTERFERENCE — 15:32

Tobias Blackwell visited unannounced. Requested that I recuse myself from the Desrosiers case. An implied threat to the firm's clients + my personal life. Subtext: Extortion via reputation sabotage.

He shut the binder and placed it back in the drawer; this time, he added a coded lock. Once sealed, he sat back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Tobias’s arrogance didn’t worry him, but the reach of the Blackwell family did.

Although Tobias didn't count on Eamon being just some ambitious upstart clinging to reputation. He was a strategist, and he had wanted more of a challenge; there wasn't much for him to lose. 

Within the hour, his office became a hive of silent coordination. Eamon placed three calls:

The first one to an independent forensics lab. He expedited the DNA verification to a far more secure lab, which operates outside normal law enforcement channels, just in case the Blackwells try tampering. 

 The third call to a cybersecurity expert. Which the firm had on retainer, he instructed her to start tracing and flagging any activity around Acheron Desrosiers’ online presence, anything as little as trolling, leaks, or attempted hacks. If Tobias planned to discredit the victim, Eamon wants to catch it early.

 The final call to a PI in his father's network. He didn't want them to dig up dirt, but to watch the Blackwells' movements. Following the law as closely as possible, but still silently recording everything from a distance. 

Afterwards, he notices Acheron’s open file. He didn't read it this time, but the photo that clung to the inside flap caught his attention. Acheron’s delicate features, bruised but unyielding, stared back at him.

Eamon tapped the photo lightly.

You picked the wrong Omega to try and erase,” he murmured to no one. Not only because he believed in his own skill, but he could see a glint of determination in Acheron's eyes, even if the little Omega doesn't recognise it himself. 

But he will. 

 ***   

The night settled like a heavy quilt over the Desrosiers' home. The hallway was quiet, the voices from earlier having faded into memory.

Acheron sat on the floor of his bedroom, back pressed to the side of his bed, sketchbook propped loosely against his knees. His pencil had long since stopped moving, but he hadn’t noticed.

The drawing had started as nonsense, just a way to distract himself. But now, shapes had formed. Gentle lines cut through the mess of scribbles forming a figure, it was tall and faceless, standing beside a smaller one, their fingers almost, but not quite, touching.

He didn’t know who it was meant to be.

Maybe it was no one.

Maybe it was everyone.

He leaned his head back against the bed, the bandages at his throat tight but familiar now. His stomach still hurt. His chest still ached from the previous shouting. But for the first time in days, he didn’t feel like collapsing.

He felt hollow, yes, but not quite empty as before. Something lived in that space, it wasn't gentle, but the first signs of a strong breeze preparing for a storm. 

He reached forward, smudged the edge of the page gently with his thumb, then closed the sketchbook.

He didn’t cry. Nor did he smile, but at least his breathing is steady.

His mom had been right; he had been running. He didn't yet know how to stop.