Tariq stood under the flickering streetlaml outside the courthouse, the rain washing away the blood from yesterday's headlines. Inside, the gavel fell—"Guilty," "Not guilty"—and the crowd erupted. Yet as the judge's hammer echoed, the victim's daughter wept alone in the lobby, her tears unanswered by laws inked on parchment. Justice had been served, but she felt no peace.
He knows because he's sat on both sides: the blindfolded Lady Justice who hands down verdicts in sterile chambers, and the hollow coffins of souls whose voices fade into cold records. No statute can stitch a broken heart, no prison cell can erase the ache of loss.
Then the world blurred. Pain seared behind his eyes. A voice—neither human nor angel—whispered through his skull: "Welcome, Divine Judge."
Before him bloomed a translucent dashboard listing the names of the wronged, alive or dead, each entry pulsing with grief unrealized by mortal courts.
His first case: "ELIZA TAYLOR—Justice Denied. Salvation Pending."
A single button hovered beneath her name: "Make a Deal."
Tariq breathes in damp air, despair knotting his chest. The only way forward is to give these victims what human law cannot: the salvation they've prayed for.