Jackson Cade,
This is your jurisdiction, isn’t it?
You may not wear the star anymore, but I know how these things work. You’re still the law in your eyes. Still the one who decides what’s right and what gets swept under Arcadia’s ever-burning rug.
So consider this… an official statement.
Felix Foley brutalized me with a weapon. On live broadcast, in front of thousands. Point blank.
There was no provocation. No warning. Just a steel chair, six strikes, and a smile that didn’t match the blood on his hands.
And now, I’m pressing charges.
Because the truth matters, doesn’t it? Isn’t that what you say?
But this isn’t about Foley. Not really.
This is about what that chair revealed.
You see, Felix believed he was the light in the dark. An inspiration for children. And when I stripped that delusion away, do you know what came out?
Not a hero.
A sadist. A creature of reflexive violence. The moment the illusion cracked, the real Felix Foley stood up—and he swung for the skull.
Because it was always in him.
Just like it’s in you.
I’ve watched you, Cade. The way you clench your fists when the law doesn’t bend your way. The way your voice drops when someone questions your righteousness. You wear control like armor, but there’s something twitching underneath—something hungry.
And now, we all know why.
Zeus. Your blood. The empire beneath every crater. And whether he knew you were his or not, it changes nothing.
Because the recipe was still passed down.
Not by nurture. By nature.
That instinct you have? To dominate. To command. To do “what must be done” when it serves your order? That wasn’t taught, Cade. It was inherited. Every brutal edge in you comes directly from the hands of a filthy tyrant—and you know it.
In fact, you’re already cracking. The way you barked when George was touched. The venom when Zeus told you to sit. That wasn’t discipline. That was something breaking.
So here’s the part they won’t put in the paperwork.
You’re going to snap.
Maybe not with a chair. Maybe not on live broadcast. But it’s coming. Because just like Felix, your control is surface level. Just like him, your legacy wasn’t built. It was buried. And just like him, I’ll be the one who brings it out.
Because at Ascension, the law won’t save you. The name won’t protect you. Your convictions will be treated like any other delusion—peeled back, layer by layer until only the truth remains.
That’s what you are now, Jackson.
Not the protector.
Not the heir.
Not the law.
Just another man trying to outrun what he is. Another beast with the wrong leash. Another future headline waiting for a trigger.
And when it happens—when you finally see yourself, steel in hand, blood on your boots—don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Because like Felix, you are no different than the monsters and miscreants you claim to want to put away. And soon, Jackson, the entire world will see it too.
This is my official statement.
And I’ll see you all in court.
Signed, Anton Savor.