Once the other kids leave, Steve looks out the window, "I still want to go to art class today. The trial doesn't change anything." He says with a frown. Sam looks at him meaningfully and he sighs. "I know, I know that this was bad."

"You passed out, Steve. You didn't just fall asleep."

Steve groans, "I know, but how am I supposed to say that to them? They would have asked why."

Sam stares at him, "why did you?"

He shakes his head, "I don't know. I was really tired, and I'm wondering if I just… tired out my heart or something—"

"Steve? I'm Dr. Natsue." They both look up to see a new doctor standing in the doorway. "Sorry, we're getting to you so late. Mr. Wilson? Would you mind stepping out for a few minutes?"

Sam looks at her, unsure, "why?"

"Just some basic questions I need to ask Steve."

Sam looks at him and he just shrugs, "okay…" Sam says finally, then he looks meaningfully at Steve, "you call me if you need me, I'll be right outside."

Steve nods and the doctor waits until the door is fully closed.

"Steve. It's very important that you're honest with me. I'm your doctor and I want to ensure your health and safety." Steve looks at her, unsure where she's heading. "I need to know if you're having suicidal thoughts, or ideas of harming yourself?"

Steve feels his mouth part in shock, "what?"

"After last night's incident, I want to make sure that this was not an attempt to harm yourself."

"What? N-no." Steve chokes out, "I didn't- I wouldn't—"

She holds up her hands, "I'm not trying to say you would." She says calmly, "I didn't mean to distress you, I just want to make sure you're properly taken care of and receive the help you need."

The air drags slowly back to his lungs, and he leans back, "no, I swear, I just… was really tired. I passed out I think…"

She looks at her clipboard, "after they made sure your lungs were clear, they ran a few tests on your heart and I'm concerned about the degradation I'm seeing compared to your last results." Steve winces, the last doctor had mentioned this. Trying to heal one would hurt the other. "I'm going to need you to start taking it really easy." The doctor says, "what were you doing before this incident?"

"Just trick or treating." Steve says softly, "just walking."

"For how long? How cold was it?"

"A couple hours… It was pretty chilly." He admits, "my costume only had a thin jacket…"

The doctor smiles, "is that the traces of paint I see?" Steve nods. "Try to stay as warm as possible from now on, okay? Too intense on either side of the temperature scale makes your body and therefore your heart work harder. So try to keep that in mind. Also, if walking that long makes you too tired, make sure you take breaks often, okay?"

Steve tries to ignore the growing despair in his stomach. More restrictions. More things he can't or shouldn't do.

"Okay." He agrees softly.

—

Bucky stands next to Natasha, fidgeting and unable to stop picking at the hem of his suit. Clint stands like a statue at the edge of the room, eyes darting back and forth, half out the windows and half on the room. Watching everything like a hawk.

Tony stands next to his dad, listening as the lawyers speak and confer.

Bucky's eyes find Steve, pale and rigid, standing beside Sam near Howard and Tony.

He hates how drawn out this has to be. The jury's already been selected and today is just the opening statements. It may take days or weeks or even months before there's a decision, but Bucky hopes against all things that it won't take that long. He doesn't think he can take that. His eyes look over to Steve again who already looks exhausted just standing there. He doesn't think Steve can take it either.

—-

Tony's sitting rigidly on the edge of his seat and only his father's hand on his arm keeps him from jumping up and screaming at the attorney.

He looks at Steve who is sitting there looking like he's seeing a ghost.

—-

Clint's fists are clenched and his knuckles are almost translucent. The absurdity of their opening statement makes him want to punch the wooden bench in front of him.

He breathes through his nose and stares daggers at the back of the Fleming brothers' heads.

One of them turns around to him and winks.

Only Natasha's nails against his forearm keeps him from attacking them.

—

The court dismisses and Sam comes and tells Natasha that they're leaving. She follows him silently.

She watches as Steve sits silently in the front seat, just staring at his hands.

—-

Steve doesn't hear Sam ask him if he wants dinner. He can't hear anything. Just the repeating words of the brothers' attorney.

Seeking attention.

Fame chaser.

Scam.

Collusion.

Money hungry.

Trickster.

Actor.

15 seconds of fame.

Dramatic.

Plotted.

He walks into the room, grabs his art folio and walks back out of the house without a second thought.

—-

Steve steps into the art classroom and sits at his station.

"What's with the get-up?"

He looks up to see Hope staring at him funny. He looks down and realizes he's still in his suit.

Attention seeker.

"Steve?" He looks back up, and her eyes are full of concern, "you okay?"

And without thinking he just says, "not really."

She tilts her head, "you wanna talk about it?"

"Not really."

She nods. "Okay. I'm here if you need to."

He takes a deep breath and nods, "thanks."

"Ladies and Gentleman! It's our first day of life models!" He hears Professor Sif say, "and it's on volunteer basis. Who wants to go first?"

It's dead silent and Steve feels himself suck in a deep breath and stare at the floor. He's never felt more angry and numb and vulnerable and exposed and desperate than he does today. After the lies and the false accusations he heard today. Nothing could make this day worse.

So he looks at the professor and raises his hand. "I will."

She looks at him in surprise. "Steve? You're sure?"

He nods, his jaw set tight.

"Okay…" she looks at the class and gestures to the side wall where a range of seats are lined up. "Now. The object you choose to sit on says a lot about you. What will it be?"

He stares at them. A chaise lounge, a stuffed wingback chair, a stool, a rolling office chair, a wooden bench, a rocking chair, a plastic folding chair, a bean bag, a director's chair, an Adirondack, and a patio lounger.

His feet carry him forward and he's grabbing one before he can second-guess himself.

If they think he's dramatic? Then fine. He sets the small metal stool down in the middle of the circle of art stations filled by his classmates and looks at the professor.

She looks at him, pursing her lips and tilting her head in thought. He ignores the minor look of concern on her face, just standing there. She nods slowly, "okay. Stool it is. There's a bathroom there and a robe. Make sure you keep your undershorts on. Come out when you're ready."

He nods and walks to the door marked "bathroom".

—

The fluorescent lights in the bathroom do nothing for him. He almost laughs at the thought.

He stares at the muddled skin, thankful that he doesn't have any rash or skin irritation at the moment. And he almost laughs again at the thought that they would be looking at anything but the words carved into his skin, or the giant burn scar, or the myriad other scars and marks on his skin from his years under Mrs. Schmidt.

He tugs the robe on, not bothering to tie it as he takes a deep breath and steps back out the door.

The lights are darker, the overheads turned off and some other smaller lights, set up at different heights around his stool.

"The different angles in lights—" Professor Sif is explaining, "ensures that each of you will have a different perspective and be able to capture a separate essence of Steve." She waves him over and points to his glasses, "you want them on or off? It's up to you."

He looks at the class and shrugs, "what do you guys want?"

The guy in the back, Gabe, speaks up. "You have nice bone structure, really sharp, the glasses kind of hide it, so I say off."

"I don't know." Hope adds, "I love the way they magnify your really nice blue eyes."

"True," Gabe adds, "but his eyes are still really nice without them on,"

Hope nods, "you're right. I guess no glasses."

Steve blinks at the compliment and ducks his head, pulling them off. "Okay." He says softly.

"Now, Steve, if at any point you want to shift or move, feel free. This is about learning to draw life not a statue. The artist will adjust according to you. If at any point you feel uncomfortable, let us know. You're not forced to sit for hours."

Steve nods, suddenly feeling the weight of the robe on his shoulders. Taking this off means giving up everything. All traces of the anonymity he's enjoyed here the last month or so. The class seems to wait patiently, waiting for him to be ready.

But he'll never be really ready. So there's no point in putting it off.

He steps up to the stool and gently shrugs off the robe, sitting on the stool and bringing one of his legs up, resting his chin on his arm on top of his knee.

The students in front of him slowly start, grabbing whatever medium is their choice, surreptitiously glancing at the burn on his arm and maybe a few of the others that litter his chest and legs, but the students behind him are frozen in place. He can just feel it. Not even a breath.

He wonders how the lights are making them look.

He pretends not to notice the way Professor Sif, who is standing in front of him, tilts her head in confusion at what the reaction behind him must be.

He wonders what she's looking at. Is it faces of pity? Or disgust? Of shock?

His eyes trail her movement as she slowly walks, trying to seem nonchalant.

But as she rounds the circle, finally getting a view of his back, her steps falter, and he hears the sharp intake of breath.

He wonders if she'll make him cover up.

But she doesn't. No one speaks.

And eventually, he hears them start. Pencils and pastels and paints slowly utilized to capture the horror that is his back.

—-

He shifts a few times, switching legs or stretching or getting a drink of water when Professor Sif hands him a water bottle.

He's not ignorant that every single one of the students that is in front of him, happens to get up and go to the back of the classroom for some supply or whatever excuse they use to get a look at his back.

He knows because the eyes that look at him before they see it and the eyes that look at him after are different. Their perspective of him changed.

Eventually, Professor Sif says they have 10 minutes remaining and he shifts, nodding and switching his foot for balance.

At 5 minutes, she tells him that they'll be showing their drawings to him and he freezes.

He grips his knees so he doesn't topple over.

She sends him to get dressed and he emerges in his suit, stopping in surprise at the row of easels displaying their work.

He looks at each one, emotion constricting his throat and he feels his hands start to shake.

He steps forward starting on the left, a watercolor of his face, not romanticized or harshened, just… a true aspect of it and he looks up at the girl who did it and smiles. She smiles back and he steps to the right. A charcoal sketch, his sharp elbow and side profile on full display. He reaches out, not touching but tracing the long lines of his legs. The next is a quick acrylic, almost blurry as if they painted him while he was stretching. He continues, each a unique and fascinating take of him. He steps up to Hope's, who was directly behind him. Her eyes are soft and kind as she looks at him. The charcoal sketch traces the curve of his back, protruding shoulder blades and sharp spinal column. He sees the shadows she used to show the traces of his ribs and the angle of his face. He sees the words. They're there, not ignored, but not prominent either. As if she was just capturing a particularly large birthmark on his skin. Sort of muddled but not erased. His throat gets tight and he can't ever remember feeling handsome, but somehow, in that sketch, he feels… like maybe he's something interesting to look at.

He moves on before he can break down, stepping up to Gabe's. It's a pastel and it's a partial side portrait, showcasing the bone structure and angles that Gabe had complimented him on earlier, Steve is fascinated with his use of colors to make it look like his hair is almost moving, hanging down over his forehead, blue eyes staring calmly out from behind. His shoulder is in view, and he is struck with how his collarbone, neck and shoulder make such an interesting shape from Gabe's view. He stares at it for a minute before moving on and taking in the last few.

At the end, the last one, he's in shock to see an oil painting of just his back. An incredibly detailed painting of every scar, every word, almost like a picture. He looks up at the artist who is looking at him in trepidation. It's not harsh, and the scars aren't glorified, just captured. The way the light creates shadows that the paint captures make his back seem… strong…

Steve looks up, "it's beautiful," he whispers, unable to fully express why.

The girl looks back at him, eyes sincere as she says, "so are you."

He stands there stunned, unable to move, the words rooting him to the linoleum floor.

She smiles and steps forward, "you seem surprised." He swallows thickly, unable to form words. "It's true." She says lightly, "believe me, I know beauty. I'm an artist." She gives him an impish grin at her joke and he finally takes in a shaky breath.

"Thanks…" he says softly, eyes falling to the ground. He steps back and looks at the row of artists, "thanks, to all of you. They're all amazing."

That breaks the silence. They all start talking at once, pulling him this way and that, pointing out the aspects of their art that they like most, touching his nose, and jaw, and cheekbones, holding out his hands and explaining why they drew his fingers the way they did. Steve laughs as Gabe asks him to take off his suit coat so he can show someone else the way he captured the 'essence of Steve's elbow' as he calls it.

Another 20 minutes goes by and he is sitting next to one of the guys who is trying to get Steve's hair color 'just right' with watercolors.

Eventually they start to peel off, heading their separate ways and Steve grabs his coat and folio, zipping it up.

"Steve?"

He looks up to see Professor Sif standing in front of him, "yes?"

"I'll not make any assumptions." She says firmly, "but… are you safe at home?"

His mind rings back to what Scott had asked and he smiles, nodding. "Yeah, I'm safe. These are old. And not from home."

She gently points to the elbow where his burn scar was. He winces, "Okay," he rectifies, "that one was from home, but I don't live with her anymore."

She takes a deep breath and looks at him. "You're an amazingly brave guy, you know that?"

He feels himself shrink, "you can't know that." He says, defensive.

She shakes her head, not backing down. "Actually I can. Choosing the stool? Complete vulnerability. Nowhere to hide. And you could have chosen any chair with a back to hide those scars."

And the words from the lawyer rear in his mind, and his tone gets brittle as he responds, "maybe I just wanted attention."

The way her eyes search his face makes him almost feel more vulnerable than when he was on the stool. "Do you?" She asks.

"Do I what?" He asks, frowning.

She laughs, "do you want attention?"

"Oh…" his shoulders drop and he looks at the ground, "no. I really don't."

She nods. "I believe you."

And that makes him feel more relieved than he can explain.

—

Bucky sits anxiously on the metal bench, staring at the sketch on the wall of the couple dancing. He hears footsteps and chatter and he turns, seeing a group of students walking out of the classroom. Natasha and Clint turn to look too and Tony hangs up his phone. They watch as the students pass, looking for Steve.

A few minutes pass and they hear another quiet set of footsteps. He turns the corner, holding his suit coat and folio, looking calm.

"Steve." Clint says, causing the boy to look up and stop in his tracks.

"What are you guys doing here?" He asks, confusion on his face.

They glance between each other. "Steve. We were in the courtroom with you. We heard the shit they tried to toss around. Then you disappear from the house and you think we wouldn't search for you?"

Steve smiles at them. A genuine smile. "Sorry." He says, "I should have left a note or something."

"Or." Tony huffs, "you know, check that handy dandy phone you have there in your pocket, and I don't know… answer us when we text you. I mean, whatever, it's just a thought."

Steve winces, taking the criticism. "I know. I should be better about that. I'll try, promise."

Natasha stands and closes the distance between them. "You okay?"

Bucky watches as Steve looks down at the suit coat in his hand. "I don't know."

"You know everything they said was a load of bullshit, right?" Bucky urges, "not a single ounce of truth in their statement."

Steve takes a deep breath. "I know… I just hope the jury knows too."

"They will." Tony insists, "they're not going to fall for that garbage. Wait till they hear the actual evidence. Their case won't stand a chance."

"You hungry?" Clint asks, "My uncle said to stop by, no matter the hour."

Steve yawns, and rubs at his eyes with his wrist. "I—" he pauses, looking almost surprised at himself, "I kinda am hungry."

Clint claps his hands, "great. Let's go."

"Jarvis is waiting outside." Tony says, dragging himself to his feet and hauling Steve forward.

"You know Erskine and Mr. Banner work here?" Steve says suddenly, looking at Tony, "in the science department?"

"Oh?" Tony asks, "you think they're still here?"

Steve shakes his head, "probably not."

Tony nods, "okay, we'll stop by next time."

"How long are you here for?" Steve asks, "don't you have classes?"

"I'm on break till Monday. But…" he cracks his neck side to side, "I'm going to be coming back often for the trial. Not letting those slime balls get away with one freaking thing."

"Thanks, Tony."

"Hey, what are crazy half-brothers for?"

Steve groans, "shut up." Tony laughs as they head towards the car.

—

The next two weeks are filled with school, art class, trips to the courtroom and Steve feeling nauseous almost every second of every day.

Sam had taken him to the doctor the second day when it wouldn't go away, but the doctor just looked at him and told him he needs to 'stop stressing'. That he's giving himself more ulcers. Sam had looked like he wanted to strangle the man but Steve had placed a calming hand on Sam's arm. "Thanks, doc. I'll try that."

Sam had ranted in the car, "oh, yeah. Steve, no worries, just stop stressing." He'd slammed a hand against the steering wheel, "what kind of doctor tells you to just CALM DOWN! Like it's that easy! Just calm down as if you're not—-" he had clamped his mouth shut and Steve sighed, leaning back against his seat and looking out the window, still feeling sick.

—

And that's how it goes until the day he'd been dreading the most arrives.

"The defense calls Steven G. Rogers to the witness stand."

He moves stiffly, swearing on the Bible and then sitting in the chair the officer points him to.

First his own lawyer asks him questions, leading him through his testimony and filling in any details the jury hasn't gotten. He tries to ignore the churning in his gut as he tells the story from the beginning. Starting with their vendetta with him about turning them in for stealing from Reynold's Market, to them grabbing him from the street, to their torture of him in the warehouse and finally his experience in the dumpster. His fingers are clamped on the small wooden ledge in front of him, and he ignores the gasps and shock from the jury and courtroom audience as he describes in explicit detail what they did to him. He does not look at his friends' faces, he just stares at Sam's reassuring face, the man who knows everything and has taken care of him since. He stays quiet as the prosecution shows the photos of his scars, the ones taken right after he was found and the set they'd asked to take only a few weeks ago.

They talk about the graveled filled sock that was shoved in Steve's mouth and the DNA that was found on it. The lawyer talks about the warehouse where they found Steve's blood and bile.

And Steve sits there, listening to his most vulnerable moments be dissected and put on display. He watches the courtroom typist capture every word, memorializing this horror from start to finish.

He swallows another lump of nausea rising and tries to breath through his nose to keep them from hearing the wheeze he's feeling in his lungs.

He feels his pocket where his inhaler is, unsure whether he should take a puff to ease the tightness he's beginning to feel, the panic rising as he knows the defense is about to start their cross examination.

The lawyers have talked with him over and over about what he should say and how to remain calm under pressure.

"Just stick to the truth." They'd said over and over. "The truth."

Steve could do that.

"The defense?" The judge asks, causing Steve's heart rate to skyrocket.

The Fleming brothers' lawyer stands, eyeing Steve like he's a piece of meat.

"Steve. You mind if I call you Steve?"

Steve shakes his head 'no'.

"Can't hear ya, little fellow, can I call you Steve?"

Steve notices Bucky bristling at the man's dig and Steve takes a deep breath. He's playing mind games, just like the lawyers said he would, he can't let it work.

"No." Steve says, sounding more firm than he felt a second ago,"I don't mind."

"Good, good." The man says, nodding as if he's gotten what he wanted, "so, Steve, tell me. How much money do you think Howard Stark has spent on you in the last almost two and a half years?"

Steve feels his mouth part in surprise, not expecting this line of questioning.

"Objection!" He hears his lawyer call, "relevance!"

"Defense?" The judge asks.

"I have a purpose."

"Overruled."

The lawyer turns back to him, and Steve can feel his stomach trying to climb up his throat.

"You there, Steve? You look a little queasy. Let me ask you this, do you feel good taking people's money?"

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn." The defense lawyer says quickly, a grin on his face, "But Steve, you haven't answered my question, how much money do you think Howard Stark has spent on you since he met you?"

The courtroom is silent and he looks at Sam who he can see is clenching the bench in front of him. "I don't know." Steve whispers.

"Can't hear ya little dude, speak up."

"I don't know." Steve says louder, his voice brittle.

"Hmm…" the defense lawyer says, looking at the jury like he expected that answer, "interesting, don't you think?" He asks the jury, before turning back to Steve. "What does Howard Stark pay for now, for you?"

He can see his lawyer about to stand again but the judge holds up a hand, "let him ask."

The defense lawyer looks at him, like he's caught an animal in a trap.

"He pays for my medical bills." Steve rasps, unsure if he should mention how much Howard now pays for around the house that Steve lives in.

"Not just that!" The defense attorney says with a grin, "he sponsors the orphanage you live in, he's purchased companies under the guise of business but for the actual purpose of benefiting you, were you aware?"

Steve feels the rug being pulled out beneath him, "what?" His eyes find Howard who winces.

"Hmm… interesting reaction, so you're pretending that you didn't know."

"Know what?" Steve asks helplessly.

"About him purchasing a dermatology company that is, at this moment, working on developing a revolutionary scar removal procedure." Steve feels his chest constricting, and his heart racing. He can feel beads of sweat forming at his temples. "That he's been making huge donations to the AHA to fund research helping patients with heart conditions such as yours. That there's a security detail outside of the orphanage you live in, 24/7."

He sees Sam's head whip towards Howard and Steve's fingernails bite into the ledge.

"What?"

Howard's looking on with wide eyes and face in shock.

"Objection." His lawyer calls again, "relevance!"

The judge nods, "defense, get to your point quick."

The man nods, seeming unbothered, "your life has drastically improved since the moment you met Anthony Stark at that program that you happened to weasel your way into so coincidentally on the first year they allow scholarships or underprivileged students. Did you know you'd be placed in his group?"

"What?" Steve asks, the word shaken from his mind, "what?"

"Did you form a connection with Anthony Stark to gain a connection to the money and power his father has?"

"I—" Steve stutters, "I didn't even know who Tony was when I met him."

The man scoffs, "you're going to tell me you didn't recognize one of the richest kids in the world?"

"I didn't." Steve says, "I didn't."

"Come on, I'm sure you have a phone, all you kids with your access to the internet."

"I didn't have a phone." Steve says quickly, "I didn't have a phone back then."

The defense attorney smiles, "oh, but you do now? And who gave you that phone?"

"OBJECTION!" His lawyer shouts, "we've heard nothing that is relevant to the actual case!"

"I'm getting there, judge."

"Get there faster, defense."

"Steve. As I said in my opening statements. The coincidence of you being involved in both incidents with the Fleming brother's is too much. I'd like to present the case that you used your sob story to wheedle your way into reach of the Stark fortune and fame. Using your contrived friendship with Anthony Stark to solidify your place in the long line of gold diggers after the Stark's generosity. You initially goaded and paid the brothers to attack you, using your past with them as a jumping off point. This is further buoyed by the fact that Anthony Stark paid the brothers to reveal your location, after Clint Barton and James Barnes attacked the brothers on the roof.

"They attacked us!" Bucky shouts from his seat.

"Quiet!" The judge snaps, "prosecution keep your section quiet." Steve watches Natasha grab Bucky's hand and try to calm him.

"That doesn't make any sense!" Steve says in disbelief, "what money would I pay them with!? Why would I pay someone to torture me!" He feels his lungs fighting for every breath, his stomach a storm.

"Why do people jump in front of cars? Insurance scams. For money. Money makes people do crazy things. Not to mention the amount of attention a nd fame you've received in the years since. You've gotten money, attention, and medical care out of this whole ordeal. I'd say you're doing pretty well for yourself."

He can hear the courtroom abuzz and he feels himself tipping over an edge. "How could I pay them?" Steve asks almost frantically, "I don't have any money."

The defense attorney points at him, like Steve had asked the question he couldn't wait to answer. "Records indicate that a large deposit was made to the Fleming Brother's personal bank account from an account under the name Sarah Rogers at Brooklyn City Bank. That's the name of your mother, correct?"

His lawyer is standing, saying something, but Steve's vision is tunneling, barely able to suck in a breath. He can't speak, his brain not working.

He hears a question asked, "Steve, is your mother's name Sarah Rogers?"

He nods, and the defense attorney claps, "See! Jury, Steve used the money his mother left him in a risky but ultimately profitable gamble. Goading the brothers' and paying them to keep silent about it until the Starks paid them an even greater amount to reveal Steve's location! It was all a planned effort to gain Howard Stark's sympathy, which, as I've expressed by the amount of money Howard Stark has been spending on this one singular boy, he's obviously been incredibly successful! I'm almost impressed, Steve, if it wasn't so sickening."

And something in him cracks, "my mother and I never had any money! She wouldn't have had any to leave me!"

"Incorrect, Stevie-boy. Your mother had a life insurance policy set to deposit in your account when you turn 18."

"Then how would I access that!" He shouts, "I'm not even 18!"

"Calm down." The defense attorney says, looking at him like he's wild, "you need to calm down, don't want to wear out your little heart, there."

Steve's shaking, he's so angry, he stands and points at the defense attorney, about ready to tell him what he can do with his heart when the defense attorney turns to Howard and points at him.

"It's relevant to my case to know what money you're planning on spending on his new diagnosis."

And Steve feels the air get sucked from his lungs.

His lawyer looks at him in confusion. They hadn't told him. Still only Howard and Sam know. How—-

"Judge, is it acceptable to you for Howard Stark to speak?"

The man looks at the courtroom sensing the tension, "I'll allow it."

"So, Howard, tax reports and medical files pulled from your company's database and public records state your investigation into Steve's newest autoimmune condition, what are your plans for that? And can you explain how one boy deserves so much of your time and money when there are other children dying all over the world? What has Steve used against you to ensure your financial support?"

And that's the tipping point. Steve's stomach turns violent and he shrinks back, feeling the gag reflex activate. He tries to bring his hands up, to try to stop it, but it's too late.

Burning acid and blood escape past his throat, burning as he vomits between his fingers and onto the wooden ledge and podium in front of him.

Chaos erupts and he stumbles back, falling off his chair and scrambling out of the witness stand. Barreling through the door to his left that he has no idea where it leads.

He stumbles down the hallway, hearing shouting and ignoring it.

—-