The courtroom door slammed shut behind them, but the echo of the judge's words still rang in Jason's ears.
"Motion for contempt granted. Mr. Jason Graves, you are to be sanctioned for unethical conduct and verbal misconduct. Defense wins. This case is dismissed."
Alex was a free man.
Jason stood there, lips pressed into a bitter line, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. His smug demeanor had cracked—if only slightly.
The boys were already outside the courthouse.
Alex exhaled, shoulders finally relaxing. Matt patted his back before slipping away, melting into the crowd like a shadow, job done.
But the rest? Butcher, Deadpool, Hughie, Frenchie?
They weren't finished.
Jason stepped out, flanked by two tall, suited security men—clean cut, silent, probably armed. He adjusted his coat, clearly pissed but trying to keep his composure as cameras flashed.
That's when he saw them.
Standing by the steps.
Waiting.
Butcher at the front. Deadpool beside him, flipping a butterfly knife lazily between his fingers. Frenchie leaned on the railing, lighting a cigarette.
Jason paused.
"Don't tell me you're here for a rematch," he muttered, mostly to himself.
Butcher stepped forward, hands in pockets, that signature dead-eyed look locked on him like a crosshair.
"We didn't get our chance in there," he said, voice low. "But now…"
Deadpool piped up, "Now the grown-ups don't have to pretend anymore."
Jason gave a dry, sarcastic laugh. "What is this? A parking lot intimidation tactic? You planning to beat me up outside a courthouse? Very original."
Butcher didn't smile.
"You poked at my life. My wife. My dead f***in' wife. You think I'm gonna forget that?"
Jason rolled his eyes. "It's not personal, Butcher. It's strategy. You're just collateral damage in someone else's war."
"See," Deadpool said, stepping forward, casually brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder, "I usually love a guy with a quick tongue and a sharp wit. But with you? It's like watching a toddler swing a butter knife and call it fencing."
Jason looked him over. "Still hiding behind jokes, I see."
Deadpool's voice dropped an octave. No smile this time.
"You ever bring up her name again," he said coldly, "and I won't need a punchline. Just a punch."
The security guys tensed.
But Jason held his ground.
"I'm untouchable, boys," he said, with that sick, gleaming confidence. "You had your trial. You won. Go celebrate with some cheap whiskey and therapy sessions. This? This is still my game."
Butcher stepped right up to him now, barely a foot apart.
"You keep tellin' yourself that," he muttered. "But if I see you around again—if I so much as hear you whisper our names—I'll make sure the next courtroom you enter is inside a f***in' coffin."
Jason didn't move. But his eyes flickered—just for a second.
A crack in the mask.
Deadpool leaned close, hand on Jason's shoulder.
"And for the record," he whispered cheerfully, "I do therapy. I just also carry a grenade launcher."
Jason tried to speak, but Deadpool shushed him.
"Sshhhh. Let it sink in."
The group turned and walked off, leaving Jason and his silent guards standing there.
His smile was gone.
The game had changed.
The masks were off.