The Divided Guardian [Cursed Anti-Hero, Progression, Dark Fantasy]

"This court finds the defendant... Angelo Ashworth... NOT GUILTY."

The words echoed in the darkness. Angelo walked toward the exit, but Maxwell's voice cut through the murmurs.

"This isn't over! We know about the other recordings! You let yourself get caught on camera deliberately, and I'm going to figure out exactly why!"

Angelo turned back, laughter spilling from his throat—cold and mocking. The courtroom began to crack, walls crumbling into shadow—

"AH!" Maxwell jolted awake, sheets drenched in sweat. He wiped his face with trembling hands, his mustache damp against his palm. "This ends. Today."

Sleep wouldn't return. He knew it wouldn't.

Hours later, storm clouds choked Novaria's sky. Thunder growled promises in the distance. Prosecutor Maxwell Guilford pushed through the police station doors without announcement.

Some time later...

"—something was fundamentally wrong with that trial," Maxwell said, pacing in front of Ramirez's desk. "That boy knew something. I'm certain of it."

Chief Ramirez didn't look up from his coffee. He swirled the cup slowly before taking a sip. "We've discussed this already, Guilford. The verdict stands."

"Then explain his demeanor." Maxwell planted both hands on the desk. "That unnatural calm. As if he'd already won before walking into the courtroom."

"The kid's faced death more times than you've prosecuted cases." Ramirez waved dismissively. "You think courtroom theatrics would rattle someone like that? You of all people should understand."

"I understand perfectly well." Maxwell's voice hardened. "I've survived battlefields. I've stared down death more times that I can count. And I wouldn't have been half as composed in his position."

Ramirez shrugged. "Different breed of soldier, then. Can't help you there."

Maxwell's eye twitched. He took a breath, changing tactics. "You were his superior officer. Surely you noticed something... unusual? Some capability that might explain what we witnessed?"

The chief's hand froze on his armrest. "Well, I... uh..."

"My God." Maxwell leaned forward. "There is something."

Ramirez rubbed his temples, suddenly looking ancient. "Yes. But—"

"But nothing. Tell me."

The chief exhaled slowly. "I don't even know how to explain this without sounding like I got some screws missing."

Maxwell's patience snapped. "Just say it!"

"Angelo is... he's never alone. That's the simplest way to say it."

Maxwell frowned. "Elaborate."

"Two others live inside him. Red and Blue." Ramirez chose each word carefully. "They do everything together."

"Split personality disorder isn't exactly—"

"No." Ramirez cut him off. "They're not personalities. They're people. Autonomous. Physical. Real."

Maxwell stared. "You're mocking me."

"Like hell I am!" Ramirez's fist hit the desk. He spun his monitor around. "Watch this. Security footage from when we monitored him."

Maxwell approached slowly. Three distinct figures filled the screen—one reading, one meditating, one making faces at the camera. All wearing Angelo's face.

"What in God's name..." Maxwell's voice barely worked. "What is this?!"

"Your guess is as valuable as mine." Ramirez turned the monitor back. "His mentor mentioned something about a friend of his looking into them. Never followed up on it. Come to think of it..."

"So this is real? And you let this... this aberration wear a badge?!" Maxwell's composure shattered. "Better yet—how is he not in a laboratory being studied like... Like... I don't know what?!"

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Ramirez's expression went dark as a storm. "I'd die before I let anyone treat that boy like a lab rat."

Maxwell blinked, stunned silent.

"What?" Ramirez's voice could have cut steel. "Say it."

"I..." Maxwell straightened his jacket. "That's irrelevant. If there are multiple versions of him, what if one helped from outside the camera's view? That would explain everything—his confidence, the impossible timing!"

Ramirez considered this. "You're the combat expert. Could Red pull off that kill from a blind spot?"

"Red specifically? Not the other one?"

"Blue would never." Ramirez shook his head. "Trust me on that."

"So they operate independently? He doesn't control them?" Maxwell pieced it together.

"Completely autonomous." Ramirez looked tired just remembering. "Red switched the salt and sugar every damn week. When we tried outsmarting him by switching them before he could, he somehow knew and left it alone."

Maxwell went quiet, thinking. "I'll need to review that footage again. Though proving this in court..." He shook his head. "How do you even present this? 'Your Honor, there are three of him?' If they refuse to manifest, I look insane. My career is finished."

"No argument there." Ramirez sipped his coffee. "Those three are many things. Normal isn't on the list."

"Then I investigate him myself." Maxwell's tone shifted to determination. "Learn how they function. Their patterns. It's the only way this comes before a judge." He looked at the chief. "Where can I find him?"

"Said he had business out of town last I heard."

"Fine. I'll wait."

"Last trip lasted months," Ramirez added.

"MONTHS?!" Maxwell nearly shouted. "That's completely unacceptable! Where did he go?"

"No clue." Ramirez shrugged. "Don't tell me you... You're planning to chase him?"

"To the ends of the earth if necessary. Maxwell Guilford doesn't play the fool for anyone." He stood straighter. "Give me his contact information."

Ramirez chuckled. "Sure, but the kid's ex-police. He won't cooperate willingly, or fall for any tricks easily."

Maxwell walked to the door. "I don't need cooperation."

"Farewell, then, Prosecutor Guilford."

Maxwell stepped into the hall, determination burning behind his eyes. He already had a plan forming—one that didn't require Angelo's permission.

"So you're putting together a team?"

"That is correct."

"To chase down this Angelo kid?"

"Precisely."

Detective Plare took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly into the already hazy office. "And you want me because...?"

Maxwell waved his hand through the smoke cloud. "For God's sake, Plare. Must you smoke indoors?"

"My office. My air." Plare didn't even look up. "Don't like it? Find someone else who cares."

Maxwell bit back a reply. He needed this man. "Listen. When it comes to investigative work, you're the best in this city. The boy is an enigma—I need your instincts to crack him open." He leaned forward. "You exposed the Grim Reaper. That alone proves your worth."

Plare stared at the ceiling, cigarette dangling from his fingers. "You're overselling it. That case? Complete disaster. Biggest stain on my record."

"Irrelevant." Maxwell dismissed it with a gesture. "I'd be honored to have you. And the compensation would be substantial."

Plare finally met his eyes. "No."

"What? Why not?"

"I'm too old to leave town chasing some vigilante around the countryside like a bloodhound." He took another drag. "Twenty years ago? Maybe. Maybe."

"Detective, please reconsider—"

"Hold on." Plare raised a hand. "I'll give you something if it gets you out of my hair. A name. Someone competent enough to actually help, desperate enough to say yes."

Maxwell stared at him like he'd sprouted horns. "Who?"

Rain hammered Novaria's streets. Maxwell's footsteps splashed through puddles forming on cracked pavement, his heavy coat already soaked through. For a moment, violet light flickered around him—his aura burning hot enough to steam the rain off his clothes. Then he caught himself and shut it down.

No. I made a vow.

He pushed through the door of a corner store in the city's forgotten quarter. Water dripped from his coat onto the floor. Nobody looked. Nobody cared.

The cashier barely glanced up. "Paper or plastic." She looked like she'd given up on life years ago—baggy clothes hanging loose, hair unwashed, dark circles carved deep under her eyes.

Maxwell said nothing.

She finally looked at him properly, frowning. "You need to actually bring items first, you know."

"I'm not here to shop."

One eyebrow lifted with minimal effort. "Then move along please. You're blocking the line."

He turned. The store was empty behind him. "What line?"

She sighed not bothering to hide her rolling eyes. "Can I help you with something?"

"Are you Vera Holt?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Who's asking?"

He pulled out his badge. "Prosecutor Maxwell Guilford."

"Huh." She looked more confused than concerned. "Am I in some kind of trouble?"

"Not at all." He pocketed the badge. "I'm here with an opportunity."

"Don't know if you noticed..." She gestured vaguely at the register, the empty aisles. "I'm a cashier. In a grocery store."

Maxwell didn't blink. "Ten years ago, you were Detective Vera Holt. Does that ring any bells?"

Something died in her eyes. "That person's dead."

"I heard you got David Thron to testify." Maxwell pressed forward. "Rare accomplishment—the man trusted almost no one. You needed his statement."

Her jaw tightened.

"But it wasn't enough," Maxwell continued. "His testimony fell apart. Your defendant walked free. And then—"

"David vanished." She cut him off, staring at the scuffed counter. "Year later, the lead prosecutor turned up dead."

Maxwell studied her face. "That's what I was going to say."

She finally looked up at him. "Yeah. I know."

"Perhaps Detective Holt isn't as dead as you think."

"Don't bother with me, old man." She shook her head slowly. "Everything I touch turns to ash. Every case. Every person."

Maxwell leaned across the counter until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. Something fierce burned there—something that wouldn't quit.

"Then you've got nothing left to lose. And everything to prove." His voice dropped lower. "That's what I'm offering you."

She looked up at him, wrestling with ghosts he couldn't see. Her mouth opened, closed. No words came.

"Are you in or not?" Maxwell pressed.

Her lip trembled. Her eyes went glossy. She didn't know the case. Didn't know the risks. Didn't know anything except that this man believed she still had something worth salvaging.

"I'm in."