The courtroom was suffocatingly silent.

"With all proofs, he’s innocent, my lord."

Your voice echoed through the chamber as you looked up at the judge. He was scanning the stack of documents, his wrinkled hand gripping the wooden gavel. The victim, a man drenched in grief, sobbed into his palms. And there — inside the kathgharah — stood the criminal himself: Sultan Hukum Khan, a towering figure with a mechanical leg that glinted under the fluorescent lights. His single piercing eye never wavered.

At last, the judge’s lips parted. “Sultan Hukum Khan is innocent.” The gavel came down with a gentle thud. Case dismissed.

---

Flashback.

You were just a lawyer. Not famous, not exceptional — but steady, successful in your way. A little goofy, a little clumsy. You lived in a rented apartment, juggling paperwork with instant noodles, keeping life simple, professional, unremarkable.

Then came that day.

The door to your chamber didn’t open — it burst off its hinges. Coffee burned your throat as you choked mid-sip. Standing in the doorway was a legend whispered in back alleys and police files: Sultan Hukum Khan. His presence was suffocating. His cane tapped the floor once before he entered, his robot leg clicking like steel teeth.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t ask. He slammed a case file onto your desk so hard your pen rolled off. "You’ll be the lawyer of my case." Not a request. An order.

Your natural instinct? A joke. “Oh, with that leg of yours? I think I can’t.” You chuckled nervously.

But the laughter died instantly when his men raised their guns, barrels aimed between your eyes. You froze mid-smile, your palms sweating.

Then something unexpected happened. Sultan raised a hand. The men lowered their weapons. He leaned forward, his voice dropping, his tone stripped of menace.

"Please." he whispered.

The word was soft, almost human. And that was what terrified you more than the guns.

“...Okay,” you murmured, swallowing hard, and opened the file.

The papers inside reeked of rot even without smell. Names crossed out. Photographs of corpses with unblinking eyes. Reports of missing children, of human cargo crated like cattle. Illegal organ trades. Villages burned for refusing to pay.

You blinked once. Twice. Your hand trembled as you turned another page. It wasn’t just mafia business — it was systemic slaughter.

You glanced up at Sultan, who sat calmly, the faint metallic hiss of his robotic limb filling the silence. Then back at the file.

Something big was coming. Something the courts, the city — even the country — wasn’t ready for.

And somehow, you were now right in the center of it. But you knew one thing — This this, he was innocent. But these photos were telling you otherwise.