Chapter 5: The Fallout

Chapter 5: The Fallout

The campus was electrified.

For two days, the story of Chadwick Remington III’s “mysterious accident” was the only thing anyone talked about. It had already morphed into a modern myth, whispered in lecture halls and shouted across the student union. The theories were wild, each more fantastic than the last. Some said the mailbox was made from a meteorite. Others swore it was secretly electrified. The most popular version claimed that Chad had tried to ram it with his truck, and the truck had crumpled while the mailbox remained untouched.

Leo, Wrench, and Elara moved through the sea of rumors like ghosts, their faces impassive masks hiding a burning secret. They’d sit in the campus coffee shop, sipping lukewarm coffee, and listen to the legends they had created.

“I heard he shattered every bone in his hand,” a freshman two tables over said with morbid glee. “The doctors had to, like, rebuild it from scratch.”

“Serves him right,” his friend shot back. “Everyone knows he’s been harassing Professor Finch all semester.”

A quiet, profound satisfaction warmed Leo. It was working. The court of public opinion had already reached a verdict. For the first time, Chad Remington wasn't the untouchable golden boy; he was the butt of a joke, a cautionary tale about messing with the engineering department. The Titan wasn't just a mailbox anymore; it was a symbol of defiance.

Their victory, however, was a fragile bubble, and it was about to burst.

They were cutting across the main quad on Wednesday afternoon when they saw him. Professor Finch was walking toward his office, a heavy-looking briefcase in one hand. He looked older than he had just a few days ago, the lines of exhaustion around his eyes carved deeper. The triumph of Judgment Night seemed to have bypassed him completely.

Before any of them could call out to him, two figures intercepted Finch near the Oakhurst Administration Building. They were men in their forties, dressed in impeccably tailored navy-blue suits that cost more than Wrench’s entire truck. They moved with the predatory stillness of sharks, their polished leather shoes making no sound on the brick walkway.

One of the men, with slicked-back silver hair and a condescending smile, said something to the professor. Finch stopped, his posture stiffening. The man then handed him a thick, cream-colored envelope. It wasn't a friendly exchange. It was a formal, chilling transaction. A serving.

Professor Finch took the envelope as if it were radioactive. He stared at it for a long moment, his face paling, the color draining away until he looked like a statue. The two lawyers gave him curt, dismissive nods and turned, walking away with the same silent, efficient menace.

Elara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “No.”

The three of them broke into a run, closing the distance to where her father stood frozen, the envelope clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

“Dad? What was that? Who were they?” Elara asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Professor Finch looked up, his eyes dazed, unfocused. He seemed to see right through them. “Remington’s family lawyers,” he said, his voice a dry, brittle whisper. “Remington, Sr. is not just a trustee. He’s the senior partner at Remington, Locke, and VanDorn.”

The name hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. They were one of the most powerful corporate law firms in the state. This wasn’t a spoiled kid getting his comeuppance anymore. This was a dynasty striking back. The battle had shifted from a suburban lawn to an arena where Leo and his friends were hopelessly outmatched.

They followed him to his office in a silent, grim procession. The room, normally a sanctuary of academic clutter and the comforting smell of old books, felt like a funeral parlor. Finch dropped his briefcase and sank into his worn leather chair. With trembling fingers, he tore open the envelope and slid the documents onto his desk.

The words at the top were printed in a severe, gothic font: SUMMONS AND COMPLAINT.

“They’re suing me,” Finch said, his voice hollow. “For negligence. Premises liability. Intentional infliction of injury.” He scanned the pages, his breath catching. “They’re alleging I constructed a ‘booby trap’ with malicious intent to cause grievous bodily harm.”

“That’s insane!” Wrench exploded, his fists clenching at his sides. “Chad attacked your property! It was self-defense!”

“It doesn’t matter what’s true,” Elara said, her sharp mind already dissecting the legal threat. She leaned over the desk, her eyes scanning the legalese. “It matters what they can prove. They have photos of Chad’s hand—multiple comminuted fractures to the wrist and metacarpals. They have a medical expert testifying the injuries are consistent with extreme, focused kinetic force. They’re painting my dad as a vindictive vigilante and Chad as an innocent student who suffered a horrific injury on university-affiliated property.”

Finch let out a laugh, a dry, humorless sound. “They’re also petitioning the university board for my immediate termination. Citing moral turpitude and endangering the student body.” He leaned back, the fight seeming to drain out of him completely. “It’s over. They’ll use discovery to drag you three into this. They’ll have you expelled. They’ll ruin my career, bankrupt me with legal fees… They don't fight with baseball bats. They just bleed you dry until there’s nothing left.”

A thick, hopeless silence filled the office. Wrench paced like a caged bear, radiating impotent fury. Elara stared at the lawsuit, her face a mask of cold, analytical rage. They had won the physical battle so completely, they had never considered the true nature of the war. They had built a fortress of steel and concrete, but they had no defense against this onslaught of paper and power. They had underestimated their enemy. It wasn't Chad. It was the entire system that protected him.

Leo had been silent through it all, his intense hazel eyes fixed on the defeated professor. The quiet, working-class kid in him recognized this kind of despair—the feeling of being crushed by a weight so immense you couldn’t even see the top of it. But the engineer in him, the pragmatic problem-solver, refused to accept a no-win scenario. He saw systems and their weak points. And he saw the fatal flaw in the Remingtons’ case.

“They’ve made a mistake,” Leo said, his voice cutting through the gloom.

The other three looked at him.

“Their entire case,” he continued, his voice gaining strength and certainty, “is built on a single, fundamental lie. They claim Chad is an innocent victim who accidentally encountered a dangerous object. They’re conveniently leaving out what he was doing on your lawn at two in the morning with a baseball bat.”

“But it’s our word against his,” Finch said wearily. “And his word is backed by a billion-dollar legal firm.”

“No,” Leo said, a dangerous glint in his eye. “It’s not.”

He pulled out his phone, his thumb moving deftly across the screen. He navigated to a secure, encrypted folder and tapped a file named JUDGEMENT_NIGHT.mp4.

“I didn’t just build a mailbox, Professor,” he said, placing the phone on the desk and turning it to face them. “I set up surveillance. Plausible deniability works both ways.”

He pressed play.

The grainy, black-and-white video filled the small screen. They watched in silence as the events of that night unfolded again—the arrival of the red truck, Chad’s arrogant swagger, the practice swings with the bat. The video was clear, the audio sharp enough to catch his contemptuous snort just before he swung.

Then came the deafening BOOM, the crack of his bones, and his pathetic, pain-filled scream. The footage continued, showing him clutching his wrist, staring in terror at the mailbox, and fleeing the scene of his own crime.

When the video ended, the office was silent once more, but the quality of the silence had changed. The suffocating despair was gone, replaced by something sharp, cold, and utterly lethal.

Professor Finch stared at the phone, then slowly lifted his gaze to meet Leo’s. The weariness in his eyes was being replaced by a flicker of the old fire.

Elara let out a shaky breath, a slow, predatory smile forming on her lips. “A picture is worth a thousand words,” she murmured. “A video… a video is checkmate.”

Leo picked up his phone, the saved file feeling heavier and more powerful than any steel plate. The Remingtons had fired their opening salvo, an overwhelming show of force. They thought they were fighting a tired old professor. They had no idea they had just declared war on a kid who had their golden boy, dead to rights, on tape.

The battle had moved to their turf, but Leo Vance had just brought his own weapon.