Her Jaw Was Shattered in a Ritual, But My Estranged Cousin Underestimated a Father's Secret Ancestral Power
The hospital’s fluorescent lights hummed with an almost unbearable monotony as I left Cassandra’s room. My conversation with Dr. Reed, about the unsettling marks on the wall, had stirred a new urgency within me. I needed answers, official ones, and I needed them fast.
My first call was to General Elias Albright, my former commanding officer and a man who owed me more than a few favors. I spoke with the kind of clipped, direct tone that left no room for pleasantries.
“Elias, it’s Alistair. I need some intel on Julian Thorne and his family, discreetly.”
There was a noticeable pause on the other end, a beat of hesitation that was uncharacteristic for Albright. His voice, when it came, was carefully neutral, almost practiced.
“Alistair, my friend. I heard about Cassandra. My deepest regrets.”
“Thanks,” I cut in, impatience gnawing at me. “But I need actionable intelligence. Julian Thorne, the cadets, their families. Specifically, their connections within the service, any disciplinary records, anything that could shed light on this.”
Another pause, longer this time. I could almost hear the gears turning, the calculations being made on his end. This wasn’t the usual, easy “I’ll see what I can do” I expected from him.
“Alistair,” Albright finally said, his tone softening just enough to imply concern, but hardening into a subtle warning. “That’s a… sensitive request. The Thorne family, they have considerable pull. Old money, deep roots.”
“I’m aware of their public profile,” I retorted, frustration rising. “I’m asking about their *other* profiles, the ones that matter when cadets shatter a girl’s jaw.”
His sigh was audible. “Look, I’ve already made some inquiries on your behalf, given your service. It’s… a dead end. Every avenue I’ve pursued leads to a brick wall. Clean records. Flawless reputations. There’s nothing.”
I gripped my phone tighter, my knuckles turning white. “Nothing? After what they did? That’s impossible, Elias. Three cadets, their scions, don’t get off scot-free after an assault like this, especially not at a military academy.”
“Normally, no,” Albright conceded, his voice strained. “But the official line is that it was a ‘misunderstanding,’ a ‘prank gone wrong’ during hazing. They’re already moving to dismiss it, citing lack of evidence, conflicting testimonies, all the usual bureaucratic garbage.”
The casual dismissal of Cassandra’s shattered jaw as a “prank gone wrong” was a gut punch. It felt like a deliberate minimizing of her suffering, a personal insult designed to infuriate.
“They’re not even being charged?” I demanded, my voice dangerously low.
“Juvenile records, Alistair. They’re sealed, or will be. Their families are already deploying their legal teams, leveraging every connection they have. It’s airtight.”
The phrase “juvenile records” grated on me. Julian Thorne was a monster, not a misguided youth. This legal maneuvering was a calculated insult, spitting on the concept of justice.
I tried another angle. “What about their family businesses? Any less savory dealings? Offshore accounts? Anything that could be used as leverage?”
Albright’s voice grew colder, firmer. “Alistair, I’m advising you, as a friend and a former colleague, to let this go. Pursue it through civilian channels, get a good lawyer. But do not try to engage with their other… networks. You’ll hit a wall you can’t even see.”
“Other networks?” I pressed, sensing an unspoken admission. “What are you not telling me?”
“I’ve told you all I can, Colonel,” he said, the use of my rank a clear signal that the conversation was over. “My hands are tied. Be careful. That’s my advice.”
The line went dead. I stared at my phone, the silence ringing in my ears. The raw, procedural blockage was one thing, but Albright’s subtle, almost frightened tone implied something far more insidious. This wasn’t just about wealth; it was about power that twisted rules, erased facts, and instilled fear even in high-ranking officials.
I tried other contacts, pulling strings that had once opened any door. A former colleague in military intelligence, known for his ability to dig up buried secrets, offered nothing but vague regrets.
“Alistair, I checked,” he said, sounding genuinely uncomfortable. “Even for you, this one’s shut down tighter than a submarine hatch. There’s an active directive from ‘above’ to classify any inquiries related to the Thornes as ‘low priority’ or ‘national security risk’ if you push too hard.”
National security risk? For an assault case? The absurdity would have been comical if Cassandra wasn’t lying in a hospital bed. It was a thinly veiled threat, a chilling display of the Thorne family’s reach. The sheer audacity of using military protocol to protect perpetrators of a brutal assault was a specific, mundane cruelty that ignited a new kind of fury within me.
Even Dr. Reed, after her security inquiry, came up empty. “The camera footage from Cassandra’s floor at the specific time is corrupted,” she reported, her voice laced with disbelief. “A ‘technical glitch.’ It seems incredibly convenient, doesn’t it?”
The casual shrug of bureaucratic incompetence, designed to hide deliberate sabotage, felt like a deliberate mocking gesture. They were not just blocking my path; they were erasing the very ground I stood on.
I walked back to Cassandra’s room, the cold air of the hospital corridor doing little to cool the fire in my veins. The official channels, the system I had dedicated my life to, were not just failing me; they were actively working against me. The message was clear: stay in your lane, old soldier. This fight is beyond your pay grade.
But they had underestimated the depth of a father’s rage, and the subtle currents that had begun to stir within me. If they wanted to play outside the rules, I would too. And I knew, deep down, that the game they were playing was far older and more dangerous than they could ever imagine.
The feeling of isolation, of being deliberately cut off from all my usual resources, was a personal humiliation. My past reputation, my years of service, meant nothing against the invisible hand of the Thorne family. They had reduced me, a decorated officer, to a paranoid father, shouting into the wind.
The frustration clawed at my throat. It was not just about justice for Cassandra, but about fighting an unseen enemy that could manipulate reality itself, turning truth into rumor and evidence into “technical glitches.” The weight of this realization settled heavily upon my shoulders.
I knew, with absolute certainty, that if I was to protect Cassandra, I would have to navigate a world where the rules I knew no longer applied. A world where power was measured not just in dollars or military might, but in something far older, far more sinister.
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