Писатель Илья Розенфельд

Chapter 1: The Red Ink of Justice The courtroom of the district court felt like a crypt: high ceilings, the smell of old paper, and cold light pouring in through narrow windows. Attorney Daniel Levin—whose name in legal circles was synonymous with the hardest, priciest acquittals—adjusted his cuffs. He knew today wouldn’t be easy. Opposing him was not merely the law, but Abraham Berg . Judge Berg entered as if he’d brought an Arctic cyclone with him. His robe was perfectly pressed, and his face looked as though it had been carved from gray granite. He didn’t spare so much as a glance for either the prosecution or the defense. “Be seated,” Berg said—his voice landing like a gavel blow. “On the docket: the defense’s motion to lift the attachment on Mr. Varg’s assets.” He paused. “Mr. Levin.” The judge’s tone held no emotion. “I have reviewed your motion to lift the attachment on Mr. Varg’s assets. It is… curious. From the standpoint of belles-lettres .” A ripple of snickers moved t...

The studio was immersed in semi-darkness, smelling not of chemicals, but of expensive perfume and ozone . The space was draped with heavy curtains, and huge floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined the walls. Instead of tripods, elegant mannequins held the flash units. The Master, dressed in an impeccable graphite three-piece suit , adjusted his thin leather gloves. He never wore utilitarian vests; he was a couturier who tailored reality, not fabric. Opposite him sat the client — a wealthy widower whose face was etched with wrinkles of grief. "I have nothing left," the man’s voice trembled. "The fire took everything. Albums, portraits, even files in the cloud. I am forgetting her face. I want you to return her to me." The Master nodded and put on his smart glasses . They were not just optics, but a complex neuro-interface . "Close your eyes," he commanded softly. "Remember her. Do not try to see a photo, remember the sensation of her presence." Th...

Court sessions drew him in the same way thunder attracts lightning. Simon Wells sat in the courtroom, barely noticeable among the public, his face resembling an emotionless mask. He was only interested in the details—witness testimonies, the lawyers' lines of thought, the mistakes that cost defendants their freedom. In every session, he took notes in his black notebook. Simon wasn’t an ordinary listener. He didn’t come out of curiosity. He studied every crack in the system, every loophole, every way one could evade punishment or, conversely, manipulate the law. He knew how words, intonations, and even pauses could either save a person or drown them. And he was preparing. Each session brought him closer to his goal. He studied court practices, analyzed the mistakes of criminals and investigators, choosing the perfect method. He needed a flawless strategy. All for one crime he intended to commit. The system had taken everything from him. Simon's father, Walter Wells, was an o...