The Thorne household was a symphony of mundane chaos.
Mithra—Daniel—stood in the hallway of the two-story suburban home, dressed in a simple button-down shirt and trousers his father had laid out for him. He was analyzing the sounds.
To his left, the kitchen: the sizzle of eggs, the hiss of coffee brewing, his mother's soft humming. A domestic ritual.
To his right, the living room: a television blaring morning news, his brother Liam slouched on the couch, scrolling on a phone. A consumption of information.
Upstairs: the shower running, his sister Elise preparing for her job at the local library. A purification cycle.
And underlying it all, a tension. A vibration of unspoken worry aimed at him.
"Danny! Breakfast!" his mother, Sarah, called.
He walked into the kitchen. The table was set for five. The smells were overwhelming—rich, organic, complex. As a god, he had perceived the concept of nourishment. Now, he smelled it. His stomach made a human sound of anticipation.
"Sit, sit," Sarah said, placing a plate before him. Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon. "You need your strength."
Harold was already at the table, reading a newspaper. He peered over it at Daniel. "Sleep okay?"
"I experienced approximately five hours and twenty-three minutes of unconsciousness," Daniel replied, cutting into the eggs with precise, mechanical motions. "My sleep was dreamless and restorative. Thank you for inquiring."
Harold slowly lowered the paper. Sarah paused, spatula in hand.
"Right," Harold said, exchanging a look with his wife. "That's… good."
Liam slunk into the room, grabbing toast. "He talks like a robot now. Told you."
"Liam, be nice," Sarah chided, but her eyes were on Daniel, filled with a mother's piercing concern. "It's the medication, honey. Or the… the trauma. It'll get better."
Daniel swallowed a bite of egg. It was salty, fluffy, a texture he had no prior data for. It was pleasant. "I am not traumatized. I am adjusting. My speech patterns may differ from the Daniel you remember. The neurological pathways have undergone significant restructuring."
Silence.
Elise came downstairs, her hair damp. "What's with the vibe? Did someone die?" She froze, realizing what she said. "Oh, God. Danny, I'm sorry."
"Apology unnecessary," Daniel said. "Your statement was factually incorrect. No one in this household is currently deceased."
He took a sip of coffee. It was bitter, hot, and sent a jolt of alertness through his system. A stimulant. Efficient.
"See?" Liam muttered.
"Daniel," Harold said, putting the paper down fully. "We need to talk about work. The courthouse called. They've been very supportive. They've given you a month's medical leave."
"I do not require a month," Daniel stated. "My physical parameters are within functional limits. My cognitive faculties are optimal. I will return today."
"Today?!" Sarah exclaimed. "Honey, no. It's too soon."
"It is necessary. A judge's absence creates a backlog. Justice delayed is a form of injustice." He said it as if quoting a fundamental law of physics.
"It's not just about the backlog, Danny," Elise said softly, sitting down. "Someone tried to kill you. What if they try again?"
Daniel looked at her. Her fear was a tangible thing in the room. He understood it logically. But the emotion itself… he observed it, noted its effect on her pulse and breathing, but did not feel it resonate within himself.
"The attempt failed. The perpetrator will assume his cover story was successful and that I am a brain-damaged invalid. My sudden return to full capacity will be an unexpected variable. It will force a reaction. A reaction will reveal data."
His family stared at him. He had just described using his own life as bait with the calm detachment of a chess player moving a pawn.
Harold's face hardened. "You're not going alone. I'm driving you. And I'm picking you up. And we're talking about hiring security."
Daniel considered this. "Your protection is logical. I accept."
Breakfast continued in a strained quiet. Daniel finished his food meticulously. He observed the others. The way Sarah kept touching his arm. The way Harold's eyes kept darting to the window. The way Elise pushed her food around her plate. The way Liam glared at him, a mix of resentment and confusion.
They are grieving, he realized. The Daniel they knew is gone. And I am a stranger wearing his face.
A new feeling, sharp and cold, pricked at him. It was not guilt. It was… responsibility. He had taken this vessel. These emotional bonds were now his to manage. Another facet of the human experience.
**---
The Veridian District Courthouse was a block of gray stone and glass, imposing in its bureaucratic authority. Harold parked at the curb.
"I'll be here at five," he said, his grip tight on the steering wheel. "You feel anything wrong—a weird look, a strange car—you call me. Immediately."
"I will adhere to the protocol," Daniel nodded. He got out and walked toward the entrance.
Human sensations bombarded him. The chill of the morning air. The coarse texture of the concrete under his shoes. The murmur of people heading inside—lawyers in sharp suits, defendants with hunched shoulders, clerks with armfuls of files. The air smelled of exhaust, coffee, and anxiety.
He entered the main lobby. The marble floor echoed. People moved with purpose.
Then, a hush fell.
Heads turned. Whispers slithered through the space.
"Is that Judge Thorne?"
"Thought he was on life support…"
"He looks… different."
"Look at his hair…"
Daniel's white hair, a stark contrast to his young face, drew eyes. His posture was too straight, his gaze too direct, moving across the crowd like a scanner, missing nothing.
He walked to the security checkpoint. The guard, a large man named Roy, gaped. "Judge Thorne? Holy— I mean, good morning, Your Honor. We didn't expect you…"
"My recovery was swift," Daniel said, placing his briefcase on the conveyor.
"That's… great news." Roy's eyes were wide. "Your chamber's should be… uh… Clara's probably up there. She's been holding down the fort."
"Clara Reed. My judicial assistant," Daniel accessed the memory. Competent. Organized. Perceptive.
He took his briefcase and headed for the elevators. The whispers followed him.
**---
His chambers were on the fourth floor. Wood-paneled walls, shelves of law books, a large desk buried under neat stacks of files. The window looked out over the city.
A woman stood at a smaller desk near the door, organizing a calendar.
She was the most visually ordered human he had seen so far. Her dark hair was pulled into a precise knot. Her navy suit was impeccably tailored. Her posture was both professional and poised. She looked up as he entered.
Her name was Clara Reed.
Her reaction was a masterclass in micro-expressions. Shock, so potent it broke her professional mask for a full second. Then concern. Then a rapid reassessment as her sharp eyes took him in—the white hair, the calm, unreadable face, the complete lack of the warm, slightly weary smile Judge Daniel Thorne used to greet her with.
"Judge Thorne," she said, her voice steady, betraying nothing but professional courtesy. "This is a surprise. We were told you were on extended medical leave."
"The information was incorrect," he said, walking past her to stand behind his desk. He looked at the piles. "What is the status of the docket?"
Clara blinked, recovering her rhythm. "Judge Wilkins has been covering your calendar. There's a light schedule for you today if you're truly up to it—mostly arraignments and a couple of pre-trial motions. I can push everything if…"
"No. We will proceed." He sat down. The leather chair creaked. "Please bring me the files for today's proceedings. Summarize the first case."
Clara hesitated for a moment, then gathered a folder. She placed it in front of him. "First case is at 10 AM. State versus Marcus Pike. Petty theft. Shoplifting from a convenience store. Value under $50. He has a prior. Public Defender is assigned."
Daniel opened the file. He scanned the police report, the complaint. It took him three seconds.
"The report is incomplete," he stated.
Clara tilted her head. "Your Honor?"
"Officer Daniels states the defendant was apprehended outside the 'Quick-Stop' with stolen merchandise in his pocket. The store clerk's statement only confirms items are missing. There is no security footage attached. No witness besides the clerk. The arrest is based on circumstantial proximity and a prior record."
"That's… fairly standard for a petty theft, Judge," Clara said, her tone careful. "They rarely have the resources for full investigations at that level. The PD will likely plead it out."
Daniel looked up at her. His eyes were a clear, unsettling gray. "Standard does not mean just. A prior record is not evidence for a new crime. The clerk's statement has inconsistencies. He claims he saw the defendant 'lurking' near the beer cooler, but the stolen items are chips and batteries, located at the opposite end of the store."
Clara's professional composure flickered again. She hadn't noticed that. She'd processed dozens of these files. They were routine. He had looked at it for three seconds.
"You think it's a false arrest?" she asked.
"I think the data is insufficient for a verdict. We will hear the case." He closed the file. "Please notify the bailiff I am ready."
Clara just nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."
As she turned to leave, Daniel spoke again. "Miss Reed."
She turned back.
"Thank you," he said.
The words were correct. The tone was flat. It lacked the genuine warmth of the old Daniel. But it was an attempt.
A faint, confused softening touched her eyes. "You're welcome, Judge."
She left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Alone, Daniel Thorne looked out at the city. The machine of human justice was grinding away in the floors below him. Flawed, slow, messy.
He had no divine scales here. Only evidence, testimony, and the fragile human concept of "beyond a reasonable doubt."
He touched the case file.
Let us begin.