The National Major Crimes Bureau hadn't slept properly in eleven days.

The evidence room was overflowing. Cardboard archive boxes lined the hallways in untidy, towering stacks, each slapped with fluorescent labels reading RIGGERZ INVESTIGATION in thick, black marker. Detectives sprinted between departments with armfuls of files, while exhausted forensic officers balanced cardboard trays of takeaway coffees beside microscopes that hadn't been switched off in nearly two weeks.

High-mounted televisions in the bullpen cycled endlessly through the same flashing headlines:

THIRTY-SEVEN EXECUTIVES UNDER CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION

GOVERNMENT ANNOUNCES SPECIAL PROSECUTION TASK FORCE

FORENSIC REPORTS CONFIRM MULTIPLE HISTORIC HOMICIDES

The country had finally stopped asking if the allegations were true. Now, it wanted names.

Nicholas stood right in the center of the storm. His tie had long since disappeared, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled past his elbows, exposing forearms littered with fading bruises and fresh paper cuts. Three massive case files lay open across his cluttered desk, each one thicker and more damning than the last.

A detective approached, dropping another heavy stack onto the wood. "Morning, Nick."

Nicholas accepted them without looking up. "What do we have?"

"Financial Crimes froze another twenty-three offshore shell accounts overnight."

He flipped open the top file. "Estimated value?"

"Just under four hundred million."

Nicholas gave a tight, single nod. "Good."

"Cyber Crime finished tracing the proxy servers," the detective continued. "Everything Rogue Whistle leaked checks out perfectly."

Another nod.

"Human Trafficking just reopened fourteen cold missing-person cases. Cold Case confirmed two more historic witness statements."

Nicholas signed three separate warrants almost absentmindedly, the scratch of his pen sharp and rhythmic. For weeks, he had been running on pure adrenaline and caffeine. Chasing ghosts, interviewing terrified witnesses, breaking into forgotten, dusty archives-he had spent months trying desperately to prove a conspiracy that everyone powerful insisted was just a delusion.

Now, the machine had finally started moving without him. Every department in the building had become another pair of hands helping to dismantle the Riggerz empire brick by brick.

Someone hurried past, sliding a fresh forensic folder onto his desk. "Exhumation reports."

Nicholas looked up immediately, his chest tightening. The detective handed over the heavy, sealed manila envelope. "Final confirmations."

His pulse quickened. He tore open the paper seal.

CASE REVIEW - SHANE MIRAI RIGGERZ

Cause of Death: Homicide.

Original ruling of a racing accident officially overturned. Forensic analysis indicates the vehicle did not malfunction due to mechanical wear; steering and brake lines were deliberately tampered with prior to the race. Postmortem staging consistent with intentional concealment.

Nicholas closed his eyes for a single, heavy moment, letting the breath slip slow and painful through his teeth. "...About damn time."

He turned the page.

CASE REVIEW - WILLIAM & MARGRET CORNWELL DIAS

Previous classification: Armed home invasion.

Revised classification: Double homicide. Recovered ballistic comparisons directly link the weapon used to additional organized corporate killings. Multiple pieces of vital evidence confirmed to have been removed from the original crime scene prior to forensics processing.

For a long, agonizing moment, Nicholas simply stared at his parents' names. Shane. William. Margret. And everyone else who had been crushed under the wheels of the Riggerz machine over the years.

"They deserved better."

Nicholas looked up. Captain Reyes was standing there, quietly placing a folder onto the corner of his desk. Unlike every other file in the room, this one was a stark, blood-red. Marked in bold, black block letters: ARREST WARRANT.

Nicholas slowly opened the folder.

AYLIN RIGGERZ.

Stamped across her name in fresh blue ink: APPROVED.

His jaw tightened. Years of haunting ghosts, years of dead ends, years of wondering if the monster behind it all would simply die rich and untouchable before anyone could lay a finger on her.

Not anymore.

Captain Reyes folded his arms, looking out over the chaotic bullpen. "Interpol's already flagging her passport."

Nicholas let out a slow, trembling breath. "...She won't run forever."

"No," the captain gave the smallest, grim smile. "She won't."

The heavy double doors of the bullpen burst open ahead them. A familiar figure hurried inside, slightly out of breath, his chest rising and falling as his anxious, amber eyes frantically scanned the chaotic sea of desks.

"Avi?"

Nicholas barely had time to stand before Avi crossed the remaining distance in a near jog. Without a single word of hesitation, Avi threw both arms tightly around Nicholas's neck.

The sheer force of the impact pushed Nicholas back half a step, his boots squeaking against the linoleum. For one stunned heartbeat, he simply stood frozen, the red arrest warrant still clutched loosely in his fingers.

Then, instinct took over. His free arm came around Avi's back automatically, locking him in, pulling him flush against his chest.

"...Hey," Nicholas murmured quietly, his voice softening into something incredibly tender.

Avi simply buried his face deep into the crook of Nicholas's shoulder and breathed, a long, shuddering exhale.

Nicholas rested his chin lightly against Avi's dark, messy curls. "Easy... I've got you."

"It's working," Avi whispered, his voice muffled against Nicholas's shirt.

The red arrest warrant remained folded against Avi's back, its sharp corners peeking over Nicholas's shoulder.

"It's working."

For the first time since this long, bloody nightmare had begun, it felt less like a mountain of cold paperwork-and more like the beginning of an ending.

Nicholas stayed there for another few moments, one hand resting flat and steady between Avi's shoulder blades as the younger man's breathing slowly evened out.

Around them, the bullpen never slowed. Phones continued their frantic, rhythmic ringing. Detectives hurried between desks carrying fresh towers of evidence boxes. Somewhere nearby, a muffled cheer went up as another crucial search warrant was signed.

Yet, for the first time in weeks... none of it felt urgent.

Avi finally stepped back, his hands dropping. He rubbed quickly at one eye with the sleeve of his oversized hoodie, a defensive, practiced gesture, as though hoping nobody in the crowded room had noticed the crack in his armor.

"...Sorry," he murmured.

Nicholas smiled faintly, his gaze gentle. "For what?"

Avi shrugged, his shoulders tensing as he became suddenly fascinated by the scuffed gray floor tiles beneath his trainers. "I just..." His voice failed him, the words catching in his throat.

Nicholas reached up, his fingers smoothing a stray lock of dark hair away from Avi's forehead. The gesture was almost absentminded, a quiet anchor in the chaos. "You don't have to explain."

Avi looked back up, his amber eyes searching Nicholas's face. "...Where is he?"

Nicholas's expression grew quieter, the professional distance returning to his eyes. He nodded toward a heavy, windowless gray door at the far end of the long corridor. A single, armed officer stood outside it, hands clasped formally in front of him.

Interview Room Three.

"He turned himself in an hour ago."

Avi stared at the door, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His fingers curled unconsciously into the cuffs of his sleeves, burying his hands. Nicholas watched the internal struggle play out across the kid's face for a long second before he spoke.

"You have ten minutes."

Avi's eyes snapped back to him.

"If you walk through that door..." Nicholas glanced briefly toward the waiting officer at the end of the hall, then back. "...you hear him out."

A tense silence settled between them, distinct from the surrounding noise.

"And if I don't?" Avi asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Nicholas checked the watch around his wrist. "I arrest him."

Avi stared at him, bewildered. "...Why are you giving me this?"

Nicholas didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked toward the closed interview room himself, the weight of his own badge heavy against his chest. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely louder than the hum of the air conditioning.

"Because I don't get to decide what you need."

Something sharp and defensive inside Avi finally softened. He held Nicholas's gaze for a heartbeat, giving a quiet, single nod. Then, he turned and walked toward the waiting officer.

+++

The room was smaller than Avi had expected.

White walls. A cold metal table. Two mismatched chairs. A single, narrow window looked out onto nothing but a flat, grey autumn sky.

Boaz sat beside it, his eyes trained on the glass. His suit jacket had been folded with practiced neatness over the back of his chair. The sleeves of his pale blue shirt were rolled to his forearms, and in his lap rested the small glass enclosure. Inside, nestled amongst the tiny, damp flowering stems... a single purple butterfly.

Boaz looked up as the heavy door clicked open.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then, the faintest, most fragile smile touched Boaz's tired face. "...Hey, kid."

Avi let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh despite himself. "You still call me that?"

"I've earned it."

"You really haven't."

Boaz's smile widened just a fraction. "...Fair." He gestured toward the empty chair across from him. "You've gotten taller."

"We met like a couple of months ago," Avi countered, pulling the chair out.

"Had you hit the end of the growth spurt?"

"Is that even important right now?"

"Fair." Boaz paused, his gaze softening. "You've had years."

"I've been... occupied."

Avi huffed a quiet, breathless laugh. "...Yeah."

He sat down. For a long, heavy moment, neither of them knew quite where to begin. The silence stretched, thick with everything left unsaid.

"So..." Boaz folded his hands loosely together on the metal table. "University."

Avi blinked, thrown off. "What about it?"

"Did you finish your degree yet?"

Avi stared at him, incredulous, before a sharp, disbelieving laugh escaped him. "We're seriously doing small talk right now? Here?"

Boaz's smile turned bittersweet. "I've missed quite a few years."

Avi sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders in a slow rush. "Almost."

"You still hate group projects?"

"With my entire soul."

"I figured."

Avi found his mouth curving upward. Against every expectation, the warmth of it felt entirely normal. It felt like they were sitting in John's kitchen again, years ago, before the world broke. It felt like Shane might wander through the doorway at any second, complaining that somebody had finished the last of the biscuits.

Then the phantom warmth faded, and Avi's smile slipped away.

Boaz followed his gaze down to the lap-sized enclosure. The butterfly had climbed slowly onto the highest flowering stem, its violet wings opening lazily in the pale afternoon light filtering through the window.

"...Still alive," Avi murmured.

Boaz looked down at the glass. "I kept expecting it to leave before I was ready." He smiled to himself, a private, aching expression. "Turns out... I wasn't the one deciding."

Carefully, Boaz lifted the enclosure in both hands and stood up. "Come on."

Avi followed him toward the narrow window. The guard standing by the door stepped forward and quietly unlocked the latch, sliding the pane open before stepping back to give them space.

A draft of cool, damp autumn air drifted into the sterile room.

Boaz reached in and opened the little glass door. The butterfly didn't move.

"...Still stubborn," Boaz murmured, a catch in his throat.

Avi watched the fragile creature resting peacefully on the tiny, bent branch. "...Or maybe just scared."

Boaz looked sideways at him, his expression intensely tender. A slow, understanding smile appeared. "...Maybe."

He held out a steady index finger. The butterfly climbed aboard almost immediately, its grip tiny, weightless, and alive.

For several long seconds, it simply remained there, resting on his hand. Then, Boaz lifted his arm toward the open sky, his voice barely a whisper. "...Go on."

Nothing. Another agonizing second passed.

Then-the butterfly opened its deep violet wings.

It tumbled into the open air, dropping a foot or two before catching a sudden, invisible current. Its flight wasn't graceful. One wing still lagged visibly lower than the other. It dipped, rose, dipped again, and then slowly, miraculously, disappeared beyond the grey, slate rooftops.

Neither of them spoke until it was entirely gone.

"Fly high," Boaz whispered.

He kept watching the empty sky for another few seconds, his chin lifted. Then, he let out a long, quiet breath, and it looked as though years of suffocating grief left his chest with it.

He turned back toward Avi. There was still a profound sadness in his eyes, but the desperate, frantic edge was gone. There was only acceptance.

A tired, genuine smile touched his lips. "...Okay."

He reached over and picked up his folded suit jacket from the back of the chair, draping it over his arm.

"I'm ready."