The wooden joints of twelve mannequins groaned as they descended the amphitheater steps.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The sound of their raincoated boots hitting the oak risers was heavy, rhythmic, and cold. In their rigid wooden fists, the sharpened graphite points of twelve No. 2 pencils were leveled straight at Julian Vance’s chest, gleaming like black steel daggers beneath the tarnished surgical lamp.
On the oak stenographer’s desk, the Royal Court Stenotype Machine chattered with mechanical malice.
Its internal brass clockwork gave a loud, metallic click:
CLACK-TICK.
[TIME REMAINING: 40 SECONDS]
[WITNESS LINE #13 AWAITING RED INK ENDORSEMENT]
