Justice at any cost
Rochelle exuded an ethereal quality, with blonde hair that appeared to have been woven by sunlight, cascading in silky waves down her shoulders, glimmering with a golden hue that could only be captured by dawn. Her eyes, a piercing shade of icy blue, were strikingly sharp. However, it was not merely her beauty that established her as a legend within her unit; it was her remarkable intuition. At just 25 years old, she had become an iconic figure, her metallic light blue eyes haunting the dreams of those who had crossed her path.
The sky was overcast that day, a heavy gray that seemed to weigh down on her shoulders. Rochelle Buldler, a seasoned inspector with the special unit, received a call from a friend, an old classmate. He was accused of harboring a money laundering operation linked to contract killings, facing a potential sentence of up to 15 years. She had a talent for identifying deceit, and in this case, she was certain he wasn’t lying. She felt compelled to assist him.
- Thorough Investigation
She was a strategic woman, surgical in her reasoning. With just a drop of blood, a misplaced word, or a forgotten detail about a shoe, she could reconstruct a crime. Driven by her instincts, she meticulously sifted through thousands of documents, sacrificing sleep and spending her nights at the office. As days passed, one name repeatedly emerged—lurking in the shadows, discreet, disguised, and coded—a connection to a shell company. Behind this account lies an electronic signature, and upon seeing it, she felt an abrupt halt in her heart. Andrew Vilbert, her husband... Was it a nightmare? She searched for any mistake, any slight flaw, but everything kept drawing her back to him. Her palms became clammy as she left her office, descended to the parking garage, and got into her car. She did not go home; instead, she drove for hours, her heart in disarray and her stomach tied in knots. She cried, she wept. Before becoming Mrs. Vilbert, she was primarily Rochelle Buldler. With a decision made, she finally returned. Andrew was in the living room, a drink in hand, and he smiled at her. She gazed at him for an extended moment, her expression inscrutable.
You’re home late. Another crime scene? Who’s dead?
A faint smile appeared on her lips.
Our marriage, she replied.
He furrowed his brows as she approached slowly, her steel-blue eyes seeming to pierce Andrew's very soul. I have obtained the accounts, the credentials, and the transfers. You thought you were well hidden, Vilbert, but it seems it wasn't enough.
He turned pale, and the facade crumbled.
Silence...
She uttered the words that shattered every fragment of love she had felt: You are under arrest for aggravated fraud, money laundering, and endangerment of an innocent person. You may remain silent...
Laughter had vanished, the curtains remained drawn, and the remnants of what was once a home lay in disarray. A slender figure stood, with tousled chestnut hair as if emerging from a nightmare. His voice, rough for his age, bore the scars of cries he never uttered. He possessed neither strength, popularity, nor any particular talent, and now he faced the reality of a criminal father and a mother who existed like a shadow in the house, consumed by her work. At the age of nine, Ethan had lost what little remained of his family.
**Cell 13 B**
In this cell, an odor lingered that even the walls seemed eager to forget—a blend of dampness, mold, and ancient bitterness. The harsh, flickering fluorescent light cast trembling shadows on the stained walls. Sitting on his iron bed, Andrew resembled nothing more than a shadow of a man. His expression tight, eyes bloodshot, and forehead etched with lines he had never worn before, he stared vacantly, lost in thoughts of his son. His only true weakness was the inability to watch him grow, to no longer hear his voice, and to be unable to comfort him in moments of fear. It was a slow, agonizing deterioration that ignited a fierce rage within him. The other inmates whispered about him, aware of his story. They knew... an man apprehended by his own wife—what irony, what shame. Each whisper fed the dark scripture lodged in his throat. Every night, he etched lines into the wall, counting the days and years he had left. Before he went out, he already knew; he didn't want to find anything... He wanted to take back everything that had been stolen from him.
