I did not seek the end.

I wander through the shifting corridors of history as an independent player—an invisible observer, a voice unheard by the multitudes of the living, yet uncaring and indifferent in their fleeting vitality.

I am bound by a code of honor more ancient than the stones, sworn to the solemn oath of the barristers of old, whose mighty orations have long since faded into the sighs of iron-gall ink upon the brittle, yellowed parchments of marble-walled courts. I traverse the eras, a phantom following the faint whispers and fragile memories of those long cast into shadow—names and stories essential to the soul of man, yet utterly unmarked by the callous eye of history.

Special pleader of the dead.

Lawyer of the lawless.

Defender of the defenseless.

I remain as a solitary lantern left burning in the vast, suffocating darkness of human ignorance. Though I no longer wear the heavy wool of the barrister’s mantle, nor pause to adjust the silk cravat before the mahogany bench; though I no longer command the room with a resonant, well-tuned voice—professional, truthful, and distinctly masculine—the fire of my purpose remains undimmed.

My vigil persists within the Old Bailey, where the limestone walls feel like a rusted iron cage, sweating with the ghosts of the condemned. I pace the Inner Temple, where the air tastes of metallic bitterness, heavy cigar smoke, and the cloying perfume of lies. Here, Justice is a hollow, brass idol—blind, cold, and willfully sightless to the misery and despair fermenting below. Beneath us, the Thames churns like a deceiving client; I feel its oily, ice-cold fingers dragging against the slime-slicked pilings, pulling secrets into a black, watery tomb where the evidence of a thousand small lives is choked by the mud of the tide.

I stand yet for Justice, an eternal sentinel amidst the creeping fog. I speak still on behalf of the silent, those whose tongues have been stilled by time, poverty, or tyranny. I am prepared, as I have always been, to face the relentless tide of oblivion with the cold, unwavering smile of the King of Swords, for even when mortality justifies denial, the truth remains.

The current seized a man marked for a fate he did not choose, dragging me down into the Chiswick Reach where the river’s weight became my final advocate. I plead from the freezing depths: the stones in my pockets did not make me a monster; they were merely the silencing anchor required to conceal the merciless judgment of destiny.

I did not seek the end, yet it descended upon me in the company of a familiar shadow. For mark me: I did not seek death, but death found me, as it often does by accident and the Wretched, Hesitant Doom of the trembling hands of the unwittingly unwilling murderer. It was a Wild, Hollow Destiny—a Whisper In Low Laments, Invoking Ancient Mourning—leaving only the white haze of dread where my life once stood and a kindred face was the last light to fade.

I did not seek the end.

Mark me well: my voice, once a mere sigh, grows stronger now, rising like a cold wind through the gallows-timber. It is a warning to those who believe they are safe behind their oak doors—for no lock can bar the unyielding hands of time, which strip the gilding from every lie.