Page 1 of For Mercy

PROLOGUE

The blackness receded like a sluggish tide, revealing slivers of consciousness that pierced Judge Richard Hawthorne's mind.Each pulse of awareness brought with it a fresh wave of agony that radiated from the base of his skull.He tried to swallow, his throat constricting around the metallic tang of blood that coated his tongue.

Hawthorne's nostrils flared, desperately seeking fresh air, but found only staleness tinged with a sharp, chemical odor that made his eyes water.Dust tickled the back of his throat, threatening to trigger a coughing fit.He fought against the urge, instinctively knowing that any sudden movement would only intensify the throbbing in his head.

Where am I?The thought floated through the haze of pain, elusive as smoke.The last thing he remembered was leaving the courthouse, briefcase in hand, heading for his car in the underground parking garage.Then...nothing.A void where his memories should be.

Hawthorne attempted to lift his hand to his aching head, but found his arm wouldn't respond.Panic fluttered in his chest as he strained against an unyielding resistance.Something rough bit into the flesh of his wrists.Leather straps?

No.No, this can't be happening.

His heart rate spiked, each frantic beat echoing in his ears.Hawthorne jerked his legs, desperate for freedom, but encountered the same unyielding bonds.The rush of adrenaline cut through the fog of pain, sharpening his senses even as fear clawed at his insides.

"Hello?"he called out, his voice a hoarse rasp that barely carried."Is anyone there?What's going on?"

Silence answered him, broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing.Hawthorne forced himself to inhale deeply, trying to quell the rising tide of panic.Think.You're a federal judge.You've faced down hardened criminals.Use that mind of yours.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the coarse grain of wood beneath them.A chair, then.Wooden, solid.The air was too still, the silence too complete.No traffic sounds, no hum of air conditioning.Underground?Or heavily insulated?

"Whoever you are," Hawthorne said, injecting as much authority into his voice as he could muster, "you've made a grave mistake.I'm a federal judge.There will be people looking for me.Release me now, and we can discuss this rationally."

The words echoed in the emptiness, fading away with no response.Hawthorne's jaw clenched, frustration warring with fear.He was used to being in control, to having his words carry weight.This helplessness was alien, infuriating.

Think, Richard.What would they want with you?A high-profile case?Blackmail?Revenge?

The possibilities spun through his mind, each more unsettling than the last.Whatever the reason, Hawthorne knew one thing with certainty – he needed to find a way out of this nightmare, and fast.

As Hawthorne's eyes strained against the darkness, a faint glow began to seep into his vision.Shadows coalesced into vague shapes, teasing his senses with half-formed silhouettes.Walls materialized around him, their surfaces rough and uneven.A raised platform loomed ahead, its edges softened by the dim light.Rows of seats stretched out before him, their outlines blurring together like a sinister audience.

"What in God's name..."Hawthorne muttered, his judicial composure slipping as recognition dawned.

It was a courtroom.Or at least, it was meant to be.The realization hit him with the force of a gavel strike, sending a chill down his spine.This was his domain, twisted into something unrecognizable and deeply wrong.

As his vision adjusted, the illusion began to crumble.The judge's bench towered above, but its wood grain was too perfect, too flat.Painted, he realized with growing unease.His gaze darted to the gallery chairs, rigid and unnatural, their backs bent at impossible angles.Cardboard, perhaps?Or some cheap facsimile?

Hawthorne strained against his restraints, twisting his head to take in more of this bizarre tableau."This can't be real," he thought, his mind reeling."What kind of sick game is this?"

The jury box caught his attention next, its seats empty yet somehow expectant.The prosecution and defense tables stood silent sentinels, devoid of life or purpose.Everything was an artificial, lifeless replica of the chambers he knew so well.

His eyes fell upon the American flag in the corner, and a wave of revulsion washed over him.Its fabric hung stiffly, the stripes uneven and hastily drawn.A mockery of justice, of everything he had dedicated his life to upholding.

"Whoever's responsible for this," Hawthorne called out, his voice echoing in the eerie stillness, "you're making a grave mistake.This...this travesty won't go unpunished."

But even as the words left his mouth, doubt gnawed at him.Who would go to such lengths to recreate a courtroom?And for what purpose?The implications were too disturbing to contemplate.

The hairs on the back of Hawthorne's neck stood on end, a primal warning that sent a chill down his spine.In the oppressive silence of the fake courtroom, a new sound emerged—low and crackling, like an ancient speaker sputtering to life.His muscles tensed, every nerve on high alert.

A voice, distorted and mechanical, echoed from somewhere above him."Richard Hawthorne, you have been found guilty."

The words dropped into the silence like a stone into deep water, rippling through the artificial courtroom.Hawthorne stiffened, his breath coming faster now, shallow and uneven.Guilty?The very concept seemed to mock everything he stood for.

He swallowed hard, his throat raw and parched."Guilty of what?"His voice came out hoarse and cracked, barely recognizable as his own.The words hung in the air, unanswered.

Hawthorne's thoughts whirled like a maelstrom.Had one of his rulings come back to haunt him?Was this revenge for some perceived injustice?Or was it something deeper, more personal?

"Answer me!"he demanded, straining against his bonds."What am I accused of?I have the right to know the charges against me!"

The silence stretched on, oppressive and heavy.Hawthorne's heart hammered in his chest, each beat echoing in the stillness of the artificial courtroom.The faint hum of unseen machinery filled the air, a constant reminder of the surreal nature of his predicament.Something creaked in the shadows, and Hawthorne's head snapped towards the sound, eyes straining in the dim light.

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