Washington D.C. – Federal CourthouseIt smelled like bleach, old paper, and the kind of authority that could crush a man without lifting a finger.Jason’s footsteps were slow and deliberate as he pushed the mop cart down the endless stretch of marble halls. The cart’s wheels gave a faint squeak every few steps, but otherwise, the building swallowed sound. His gray janitor’s uniform hung loose on his frame, his baseball cap shadowing his face. The laminated ID badge clipped to his chest gleamed under the fluorescent light — authentic enough to fool casual glances.The uniform was real. The badge was not.He reminded himself for the tenth time: This is infiltration, not vengeance. But the lie rang hollow in his own head.Because beneath the calm exterior, something inside him was already sharpening.Courtroom 3A loomed ahead. Jason slowed, pulse tightening. This was Hammond’s domain.Judge Malcolm Hammond — the man who had presided over Jason’s trial eighteen months ago.The man who had