As Bobby sat in his cell, despair bit at his soul. The chilly concrete and merciless steel bars had taken the place of his office's once-plush surroundings.

The unquestionable evidence against him included the paperwork, audio, and confessions of the thugs; all of them created a horrifying picture of his treachery.


Fear curled itself around his heart like a cold, slithering serpent. The loss of everything he had built and the public humiliation that would follow were too much for him to bear.

Bobby made a last-ditch attempt to call. He felt a shock run through him when he heard the same voice on the other end. He croaked, "Father," his voice raspy.

"Bobby?" Marshal Briggs' voice boomed through the receiver, laced with a hint of surprise. "How are you? What took you so long to call?"


"They… they got me," Bobby stammered, his voice cracking. "The police, they have evidence, voice calls… about everything."

A big silence stretched between them. Then, Marshal Briggs spoke, his voice devoid of warmth, laced with a chilling indifference.


"Evidence? What evidence, Bobby? You always were a drama queen. Besides, who cares what some two-bit thugs and a couple of disgruntled ex-employees say?"

Bobby's blood ran cold. "But the recordings, Father! Sarah, Derrick…"

"Recordings can be tampered with," Marshal Briggs scoffed. "And those two? Naive fools easily manipulated. Don't worry, Bobby. We'll handle it. Just like we always do."

The callous dismissal ignited a firestorm within Bobby. Years of unspoken anger and being used as a pawn in his father's scheme finally erupted. "They won't handle it, Father! This is all your fault! You used me, manipulated me! You never cared about me!"

The roar boomed through the jail cell, a stark contrast to the usual silence. A beat of stunned silence followed from the other end of the line. Then, a cold chuckle.

"Cared about you?" Marshal Briggs' voice dripped with disdain. "You were always the weak one, Bobby. The spare, the afterthought. I molded you into what you are, gave you everything you have. And this is how you repay me? With whining and self-pity?"

The final words were a cruel slap. Bobby snapped. His payphone slammed against the wall with an unbearable crack as he lunged at it in a blind wrath.

Years of frustration and pent-up wrath were released in a primal scream that tore from his throat.

Ignoring the shocked cries of the guards, Bobby strode out of the jail, driven by an uncontrollable rage. He knew where to go. And the guard feared to stop him.

The old Briggs mansion, a sprawling monument to his father's wealth and power, loomed large on the hill overlooking the city.

His angry face twisted as he stormed inside the study. Marshal Briggs sat behind his mahogany desk, amusement and displeasure written on his face.

With a tone full of arrogance, Marshal Briggs said, "You shouldn't have come here, Bobby. Especially in that state."

Bobby, his chest heaving, ignored the warning. "It's over, Father," he spat out, his voice shaking with barely controlled rage. "They know everything."

"Everything can be managed," Marshal Briggs said dismissively. "Just like always."

'You don't get it. It's me everyone knows. Not you. You hide behind this desk and bark out orders while I regretfully do them. I'm the one going down, not you" Bobby yelled.

Marshal Briggs just scoffed and said 'Pathetic as always. I said everything will be managed."

But this time, Bobby wouldn't be managed. Leaping over the desk, he grabbed a large silver ornament. He dropped it with a painful thud on his father's skull in a fit of wrath.

Marshal Briggs fell to the ground, letting out a startled gurgling sound. His shocked and betrayed eyes were wide as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

Bobby's body shook as he gazed at what he has created. After his anger had died down, he was left with the chilling knowledge of what he had done. His father had been murdered by him.

The ornament felt heavy in his grasp, a tangible representation of the shame that was starting to suffocate him. With his breathing ragged and the study silent, he stood there paralyzed.

He had come for help, for a solution, but in a moment of madness, he had become the very monster he despised.

Days bled into weeks, a monotonous cycle of stale meals, echoing silence, and the ever-present weight of his actions.

Bobby, a shell of his former arrogant self, shuffled through the mansion, a prisoner in his own gilded cage. The once vibrant colors of the décor seemed muted, the air thick with the stench of regret and despair.

One morning, a guard entered his room, an official envelope clutched in his hand. "Mail for Mr. Duke," he said curtly, placing it on the bedside table before making a hasty retreat.

Bobby stared at the envelope, the stark white paper seeming to mock him.

He ripped it open with shaky hands, gasping for air as he looked through the contents. It was a court summons, warning him that his trial was scheduled to take place in just five days.

The words appeared hazy to him. Five days. It would be his world falling apart in five days. The hard light of the courtroom would tear apart the painstakingly built façade of the loving son and successful businessman.

He was already feeling the weight of public shame, the accusatory eyes, and the whispers of disgust.

Panic choked him. He hadn't planned on this. He had always relied on his father, Marshal Briggs, the man who always had a solution, to fix any mess. But Marshal Briggs was gone, a victim of Bobby's own rage.

He felt sick to his stomach. Reaching for his phone, he staggered to find the number of Mr. Thorne, the attorney Sarah and Derrick had retained. But what good would that do? He had confessed to his father's murder. No lawyer, no amount of money, could erase that damning truth.

Despair threatened to consume him whole. He slammed the phone, leaving the huge void of the mansion booming with sound. Like a fly caught in its own web, he was stuck.

The days before the trial were a whirl of excruciating pain. His father's dead eyes and the eerie echo of his own scream plagued him in his nightmares, making it difficult for him to sleep.

He called out, wanting to connect with someone, anybody, but his calls were not returned.

On the morning of the trial, a gaunt Bobby, in a rumpled suit that hung loosely on his thin frame, stood before a stern-faced guard. "Mr. Duke," the guard said, his voice devoid of any sympathy, "they're waiting for you in the courtroom."

Bobby nodded mutely, his legs trembling as he followed the guard down the long corridor. The courtroom thrummed with a tense energy, the air thick with anticipation.

Derrick and Sarah were seated across the aisle from each other, a mix of nostalgic and rage on their features. Bobby briefly noticed a flash of sympathy in their depths as their eyes met.

He took a seat at the defendant's table and observed the space warily. As the prosecution began to pile up the evidence against Bobby, a shiver ran down his spine.

His dishonesty and falsehoods were constructed into a pattern by the physical evidence found in his father's study, the goons' testimony, and the incriminating recordings.

Bobby prepared himself when the prosecution called Sarah to testify. He listened as she described what had happened before they met Bobby, her voice faltering but unwavering. A feeling of regret went through him as he saw the hurt and betrayal in her eyes as she said.

"Mr. Duke," he said in a stern voice, "do you have any questions for Ms. Thompson?"

Bobby opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He looked at Sarah, at the woman he had betrayed and manipulated, and all he could manage was a choked sob. Shame choked him, a bitter pill he was forced to swallow.

The trial moved swiftly, a merciless juggernaut crushing him under its weight. As the jury deliberated, Bobby sat hunched over, his mind a horrifying kaleidoscope of potential outcomes. There was no hope for a not-guilty verdict.

All he could pray for was a lenient sentence, a sliver of redemption for the monstrous act he had committed.

The courtroom buzzed with a nervous energy that vibrated through Bobby like a live wire. Mr. Karuz, a man whose steely gaze and razor-sharp wit had inspired a flicker of hope in Bobby's chest, sat beside him, his face grim.

"The prosecution has a strong case, Mr. Duke," Mr. Karuz said in a low voice, his words laced with a hint of regret. "But remember, we'll fight this tooth and nail."

Bobby nodded mutely, his throat constricted with a fear that gnawed at his insides. He stole a glance at Sarah and Derrick, their faces etched with a mixture of anger and a cold, steely resolve.

He saw Tiger, his loyal right-hand man, sitting on the opposite side of the aisle, fidgeting uncomfortably.