Chapter 2: The First Cut

Chapter 2: The First Cut

The courtroom was a sterile, wood-paneled box, smelling faintly of old paper and nervous sweat. It was a stage Joe Vance felt he owned. He sat in the witness box, a throne of temporary importance, radiating a belligerent confidence that was only slightly frayed at the edges. The public humiliation at the Starlight Gala—the tuxedoed process server, the flash of a dozen phone cameras as he was handed the complaint like a canapé of shame—still burned under his skin. It had enraged him, but it hadn't scared him. It just proved this Thorne fellow was all flash, no substance. A theatrical prick.

Joe straightened his garish silk tie and shot a smug look at his own lawyer, a bewildered public defender type out of his depth. Then he looked at Adrian Thorne. The man was a specter in a suit, standing motionless at the plaintiff’s table, his posture radiating a chilling stillness. He hadn't yet spoken a word, letting his own junior associate handle the preliminary drudgery. Joe saw it as weakness. A head dog who sent his pups to do the work.

“Mr. Vance,” Adrian’s voice finally cut through the air, sharp and cold as breaking glass. He moved from his table with the fluid grace of a stalking panther. “Let’s clarify a few things for the court.”

He stopped ten feet from the witness box. His grey eyes were devoid of any readable emotion. “You’ve testified that the failure of the ‘Apex Holdings’ venture was due to unforeseen market downturns. Is that correct?”

“That’s right,” Joe boomed, leaning into the microphone. He was in his element now. Lying was as natural to him as breathing, a skill he’d honed to a fine art. “Tragic. Nobody could’ve seen it coming. I lost a fortune myself. A fortune.”

“A great tragedy,” Adrian echoed, his tone flat, betraying no hint of sarcasm, which made it all the more unsettling. “And you position yourself as a man of integrity, do you not? A pillar of the business community?”

“My record speaks for itself,” Joe puffed out his chest. “Ask anyone. Joe Vance is a man of his word.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Adrian turned to the clerk. “I’d like to enter into evidence Exhibit D. The preliminary investment agreement signed by Mr. Vance and my client, Mr. Sterling.”

A clerk handed the document to Joe. He glanced at it, a smirk playing on his lips. “Yep. That’s it. All above board.”

“And your signature?” Adrian asked.

“Right there. Big as life.”

Adrian gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “And now, Exhibit E.”

Another document was passed to Joe. It looked identical. He frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his bloated features. “What is this? You already showed me the contract.”

“Look closer, Mr. Vance. Specifically, at page four, article seven, subsection B. The clause detailing the dispersal of investor capital.”

Joe’s eyes scanned the page. The confident smirk faltered, replaced by a mask of sudden, rigid concentration. The numbers were different. The routing information, the account names—subtly, expertly altered. It was the version of the contract he’d used to siphon the funds, the one Marcus Sterling had never seen.

“This is a forgery,” Joe snarled, tossing the document onto the ledge of the witness box. “A complete fabrication. My signature has been forged!”

“Has it?” Adrian’s voice remained unnervingly calm. He gestured to the large screen on the courtroom wall. An email chain appeared, magnified for all to see. An email from [email protected]. The recipient was a known associate, a man already under federal indictment for money laundering.

The email read: “The whale is hooked. Here’s the final version of the paperwork. Make sure Sterling only sees the old draft. The new account details are buried deep. He’ll never spot it.”

Joe’s face went from florid red to a sickly, mottled white. “That’s… that’s not mine. My system was hacked. This is a setup!”

“A sophisticated hack, then,” Adrian mused. “One that apparently also gained control of your vocal cords.”

He pressed a small button on a remote. A new file opened on the screen. An audio player.

CLICK.

Joe’s own voice, greasy with self-satisfaction, filled the silent courtroom. It was from a deposition in a minor lawsuit two years prior, a case he’d won by bullying the plaintiff into submission.

“Look, a contract is a starting point for negotiation,” Joe’s recorded voice bragged. “You put numbers on a page, they put numbers on a page. Things move around. It’s the cost of doing business. Only an idiot thinks the first piece of paper is the last word. You gotta be flexible.”

The courtroom was dead silent. In the gallery, Marcus Sterling closed his eyes, a single, grim line of satisfaction on his lips. Joe Vance sat frozen, the blood draining from his face. He had been so proud of that line, so certain of his own cunning. Now, his own arrogance was being read back to him like a death sentence.

“‘Things move around,’ Mr. Vance?” Adrian asked into the silence. His voice was soft, but it carried the finality of a closing coffin lid. “Is that what happened to Mr. Sterling’s ten million dollars? Did it simply get… flexible?”

Joe opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He was a fish on a hook, gasping in an alien element. The lies, the bluster, the intimidation—all of it was gone, stripped away to reveal the hollow, panicked man beneath.

The judge, a stern woman with zero tolerance for perjury, had seen enough. She didn't even wait for closing arguments. “This court finds the evidence of fraudulent misrepresentation to be overwhelming. Summary judgment is granted in favor of the plaintiff. In addition to the principal sum of ten million dollars, this court awards punitive damages in the amount of twenty million dollars for this blatant and malicious scheme. A thirty-million-dollar judgment against the defendant, Joseph Vance. We are adjourned.”

The gavel cracked like a gunshot.

It was over. Or so Joe thought.

He stumbled out of the courtroom in a daze, his cheap lawyer muttering useless platitudes beside him. He felt numb, disconnected. Thirty million dollars. It was an impossible number. It was ruin.

He leaned against the cool marble wall of the corridor, trying to catch his breath, when a shadow fell over him. It was Adrian Thorne. He stood alone, his hands in his pockets, regarding Joe not with triumph, but with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a specimen.

Joe’s fear curdled back into its familiar shape: rage. “You son of a bitch,” he rasped, pushing himself off the wall. “You think you’ve won? You think you can get a dime from me? I’ll declare bankruptcy. I’ll hide everything. You’ll get nothing!”

Adrian took a step closer, invading Joe’s personal space. His voice was a low, chilling whisper, meant only for him. “Won? Mr. Vance, you fundamentally misunderstand your situation.”

He leaned in, his cold grey eyes locking onto Joe’s.

“That judgment… it’s not the penalty. It’s the key. A key that gives me the legal right to unlock every door in your life. Your bank accounts. Your shell corporations. Your home. Your life is no longer your own. It’s an asset, and I am the collector.”

Adrian’s lips curled into that small, cruel smile. It was the most terrifying thing Joe had ever seen.

“This wasn’t the battle. It was the formal declaration of war. The first cut is the shallowest. The real pain, Mr. Vance… the real pain is just beginning.”