The courthouse loomed over Hana like a prison. Its stone pillars stretched skyward, casting long shadows across the steps. Reporters clustered outside, microphones flashing like weapons, their questions slicing the air.
"Does the defendant understand what he's done?"
"Will justice finally be served for the victim's family?"
"Is it true the child refuses to speak in court?"
Hana kept her head low, clutching her teddy, while Mrs. Park guided her past the cameras. Mr. Choi walked ahead, his suit wrinkled from sleepless nights, his jaw tight with determination.
And in the center of it all, shackled and trembling, was her father.
He smiled when he saw her, the same confused, innocent smile he always wore. "Hana!" he called, voice cracking. "I told you, Daddy's good. Don't be scared."
The guards pushed him along before Hana could react. Her chest ached. She wanted to scream for the world to listen—for them to see what she saw. But her voice stayed locked inside.
So she held her teddy higher, like a shield
Inside the courtroom, whispers rippled through the gallery. Hana sat in the front row, just behind Mr. Choi. Her father sat at the defense table, fidgeting, his wide eyes darting from the judge to the jury to the prosecutor, as though he couldn't understand why so many angry faces surrounded him.
The prosecutor rose, confident and sharp. He painted a brutal picture of Hana's father: a simple-minded man, prone to outbursts, unable to control himself. A man who lashed out in violence and took a life.
Every word stabbed Hana.
Mr. Choi stood when it was his turn. His voice shook at first, but grew steadier. "The prosecution's case is built on assumption, not truth. The defendant is not a violent man—he is a gentle father with the mind of a child. And we will prove there is another man responsible for this crime."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The judge raised an eyebrow. The prosecutor smirked.
Mr. Choi placed two evidence bags on the table—the teddy bear's stained fur and the cigarette butt.
"These items," he declared, "contain blood and DNA that do not belong to the victim or the defendant. They belong to an unknown male. A man who is still free."
The jury shifted uneasily. The prosecutor objected, insisting it was circumstantial, that the evidence was untrustworthy. But Mr. Choi pressed on, his voice gaining strength.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this trial is not about condemning an innocent man because it is convenient. It is about uncovering the truth. And the truth is standing just outside this courtroom, hidden in plain sight."
Hana's chest swelled. For the first time, someone was saying the words she had carried alone
During a recess, Hana sat on the courthouse bench, sketching furiously. She drew the scarred man's face, his missing button, his cigarette. Her hands shook, smudging the lines, but she didn't stop.
Mr. Choi crouched beside her, glancing at the sketch. "That's him, isn't it? The man you saw."
Hana nodded hard.
Mr. Choi's jaw clenched. "We need a name. If we can connect this face to someone in the victim's circle, we'll have more than drawings—we'll have a suspect."
He stood, running a hand through his messy hair. "But Hana… if he knows we're looking for him, he won't sit quietly. He's already been to your house once."
Her grip on the teddy tightened. She knew. The scarred man was out there, watching, waiting. And now the trial was pulling him into the light.
The question was: would he strike before they could prove the truth?
When court resumed, Hana's father took the stand. His voice trembled as he answered questions, stumbling over words, misunderstanding simple things. The jury watched with mixed expressions—some pitying, some suspicious.
"Did you hurt the victim?" the prosecutor pressed.
Her father shook his head violently, tears brimming. "No! No, I didn't! I just… I just wanted to go home. I wanted Hana to smile."
The courtroom buzzed.
Hana's nails dug into her teddy's fur. She wanted to leap up, to scream for them to believe him. But all she could do was sit, silent, her drawings hidden in her lap.
Her father looked at her, desperate. "Tell them, Hana! Tell them Daddy's good!"
Her throat burned. Her lips trembled. But no sound came.
Tears blurred her vision as the judge called for order.
That night, outside the courthouse, Hana lingered with Mrs. Park while Mr. Choi spoke to reporters.
She felt it then—the weight of a stare.
Her eyes darted across the street.
And there he was.
The scarred man. Leaning casually against a lamppost, cigarette glowing in the dark. His jacket sagged where the button was missing. His smile stretched, cruel and mocking, as he tipped his head toward her teddy bear.
Hana's breath caught. She froze, paralyzed.
Before she could react, he vanished back into the shadows.
Gone.
But his message was clear.
The courtroom wasn't the only battlefield.
The real war was already at her doorstep.
To be continued.