Justice Gone Rogue

The gavel no longer symbolized justice.

In hushed chambers behind locked doors, rogue judges—once impartial arbiters of the law—had become pawns in a dangerous game. Their robes, once a sign of honor, now cloaked corruption born of whispered threats and quiet bribes. Blackmail, money, and promises of power twisted their decisions until truth was irrelevant, and only allegiance to hidden masters mattered.

These judges were not interpreting the law—they were rewriting it to serve their own ends. They blocked the executive branch from acting, denying it the authority that the Constitution had granted. Every injunction was a dagger in the back of the republic. The balance of power was crumbling, and the nation teetered on the edge of legal anarchy. If the executive could no longer act, if the courts could be weaponized by those pulling strings behind the curtain, then the rule of law itself meant nothing.

The people felt it. They saw the headlines, the carefully worded rulings meant to confuse and deflect, and they knew something was wrong. Trust in the system—already fragile—began to rot from the inside. What was once a system of checks and balances had become a system of obstruction and sabotage.

It could not stand.

Quiet conversations turned into war councils. Leaders who still remembered the meaning of duty braced for a different kind of fight—not one waged with tanks or missiles, but with resolve, defiance, and unshakable will. The battle was no longer about policy. It was about survival. About whether the nation would endure or be hollowed out and replaced by something unrecognizable.

There would be no pleasantries. No pretense of civility. The fight for the soul of the nation had begun, and the gloves were off.

Justice had gone rogue. Now, it would be dragged back into the light—kicking and screaming if necessary.