From the very first minute, the courthouse reeked of scheming: Yakup was released under judicial control, Hakkı barged into the judge’s office, while Ektailmen hovered like a hawk circling its prey. Behind closed doors, whispers of a “schedule shift” emerged: postpone the hearing, sneak Salim out the back, leave reporters chasing shadows. Rafet Amir received “orders” and promised to “fly silent like a bird,” while the Chief Prosecutor strode onto the stage with a denial as hard as steel: “There is no release.” But outside, rumors always outrun the truth. Salim was discreetly removed, public outrage flared, and Yekta—the master manipulator—seized the platform at once: “Has the judiciary become the mafia’s mouthpiece?” Reporters hammered their questions like war drums. Pars swallowed his anger to defend the institution’s honor, but each word of denial cut deeper into the credibility he was desperately trying to hold on to.

Amid the labyrinth of plots, two doors opened at once: one for Salim, and one for tragedy. At headquarters, a suspect snatched a police gun and committed suicide; immediately after, the plan for a “swap” in the prisoner transport was hastily rewritten—someone had to stand in, to smother the media fire. The “lookalike” wasn’t ready, so Rıdvan—the golden clerk of justice—volunteered. He put on the coat, pulled up the hood, and turned himself into bait. Lighthearted, he called Özge, joking as if the assignment was nothing more than a quick errand around the courthouse. Then the trap snapped shut. A group blocked the vehicle, shouting “Kesik,” a gun barrel pressed against him. Rıdvan cried that he wasn’t Salim, but one name, one icy nod—“it’s time”—was enough to pull the trigger. A shot ripped through the air. A young man collapsed in the gap between honor and truth. Pars rushed to the scene, eyes blazing: “Who gave permission to put him in that car?” No one could answer. The silence thickened into guilt.

Rage became a campaign. Pars slammed the table: “Round up every last man of Kesik’s crew.” Denials dissolved under hours of interrogation; promises of “witness protection” cracked beneath one bitter retort: “The way you protected my brother?” Elsewhere, Yekta hissed sweetly like a snake, whispering the idea of a “swap strategy” into victims’ ears, planting seeds of resentment against Pars. Derya, torn between family fractures and political storm, hurled the painful truth: “You fed the press.” Pars countered with duty to the state, but fell silent when an envelope slid under the door—evidence Salim had used for leverage: a series of planted images, the name Hilmi Yozba looming like a ghostly commander. Ilgaz received word and assembled a pursuit team; Derya searched frantically for Pars—only to find another blow: his resignation letter already placed on the desk. His phone switched off, last signal pinged in Sultanahmet at 11 o’clock, then vanished. The guardian of justice was now playing hide-and-seek with his own comrades.

Meanwhile, a strand of a woman’s black hair at the autopsy table and a shirt button at the cemetery suddenly spun the compass of suspicion toward Özge. Surveillance showed her taking a taxi near the “Kesik” route; Derya’s gun turned up missing from her drawer; each coincidence screeched like a sudden brake. Ilgaz calmly pieced fragments together: “Connection doesn’t equal guilt.” But time showed no mercy. Under the weight of “Justice for Rıdvan,” every detail lashed the system like a whip. Pars returned cloaked not in robes, but in ashes, carrying only an oath: “I will get to the bottom of this.” Old Merdan placed a steady hand on his shoulder: “To hold the torch, you must bear the heat.” Pars nodded, took the file back from Derya, and locked his sights on Hilmi—the key to dragging the entire network into the light and giving “Kesik” a true identity.

Night fell like a heavy velvet curtain, but the character had already changed shape. Pars was no longer the Chief Prosecutor behind a press podium; he was a man who had lost his “little brother” in a plot he himself had sparked to save the institution’s face. Ilgaz led the chase for Hilmi, Derya sought warrants, while the public—unwilling witnesses—formed a ring around their fear: “Has justice become the mafia’s voice?” The answer will come when the gunman nicknamed “Kesik” is dragged from the shadows, when the spliced audio reveals who gave the order “it’s time,” and when the one profiting from Rıdvan’s death is named aloud. Before the lights go out, Pars writes the opening for the next act: resignation is not escape—it is how he tears off the robe, wades into the mud, and turns himself into a scalpel. And if that blade doesn’t tremble, by morning the press will no longer ask whose side justice is on—because justice itself will answer with the cold snap of handcuffs. Now tell me: do you believe “Kesik” is a pawn, or the executioner? Is Özge a link in the chain, or the decoy? And does Pars have the courage to return to the bench, not to defend, but to condemn? Share your thoughts and follow the file—because truth, even shoved out the back door, will always find its way through the front.