Forsaken
an excerpt

There is unrest in the hall when the verdict is given and the sentence is announced. I wonder why that is, because everyone knew how this was going to end. My lawyer says I dug my own grave, but I know too damn well that I've been pushed around as much as the public opinion. The funny thing is that by this time I'm completely fine with it. I've accepted my fate the moment I pulled that trigger.
The moment I was told that the gun in my hand was not a taser and I pulled the trigger anyway, I did this to myself. I'm trying to feel regret but I'm failing just as utterly today as I did all those months ago, when Berntsson collapsed in a crumpled heap.

“You now have a choice to make, Miss Summers,” the Judge says, once order has been restored. “What will it be, death by lethal injection or participation in the League?”

Such a lovely fucking euphemism. I smirk. I dance like a puppet on a string as I speak the words that the world has been wishing to hear the moment my hands got stained with Berntsson's blood. “Participation. I'll enter the deathmatch.”

“Granted. Session closed.”

Chaos erupts around me. Journalists and audience that paid heavy money to watch this trial are jumping up. Berntsson's blond supermodel wife is crying for no apparent reason. My lawyer shouts something to keep the paparazzi off me. I ignore it all and drown out the world. Camera's flash, voices become distorted. I just signed my own death warrant... and I did it gladly.

Amidst the chaos, there's one man still sitting. People jump and walk around him, but he's just sitting with crossed arms. Clothed in a smart looking business suit that must have cost a fortune, russet hair combed back, he's watching me behind dark sunglasses. He smirks as I do and ignores the paparazzi that are trying to ask him questions. Next to him is Stender also standing, talking in his headset with whatever phonecall he's taking at the moment. I ignore the owner of the Corporation, the chief stockholder.

It's the russet-haired man I'm staring back at.

“Young, you motherfucker,” I whisper.

And he just grins.