The next day in court, the atmosphere was thicker than ever. The gallery buzzed with anticipation, reporters scribbling notes, cameras flashing in the hallway. Hana sat quietly in the front row, teddy in her arms, her sketchpad on her lap.
She felt his eyes before she saw him.
The scarred man.
He wasn't hiding this time. He sat at the back of the courtroom, dressed neatly in a dark jacket, his cigarette extinguished but his smirk alive. The scar along his cheek seemed to gleam under the courtroom lights.
No one else noticed. No one else cared.
But Hana's hand tightened around her pencil, her pulse pounding.
He was watching her.
The prosecutor stood, voice booming with confidence. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case is simple. The defendant was found at the scene. He was confused, covered in blood, incapable of explaining himself. And now, suddenly, an unknown figure conveniently appears—in a child's drawings."
He gestured toward Hana without looking at her. "We cannot let fantasy cloud justice."
The jury nodded along. The words were sharp, persuasive.
Then it was Mr. Choi's turn.
He rose slowly, placing his hand on the evidence bags containing the teddy bear and cigarette butt. "The prosecution calls it fantasy. But science calls it evidence. The blood, the DNA—they belong to an unknown male. That is not speculation. That is fact."
He turned toward the jury, his voice tightening. "And when a child draws the same man again and again, with consistency, with detail—even sketching things no one else could have known—you must ask yourselves: is this the imagination of a little girl? Or the testimony of the only eyewitness brave enough to speak without words?.
The jury stirred, some whispering.
The prosecutor smirked. "Where is this so-called man, then? If he exists, why isn't he here?"
Mr. Choi's lips curved in a grim smile. "Perhaps he is closer than you think."
For the first time, Hana saw it—the scarred man's smirk falter. Just slightly.
During recess, Hana sat in the hallway with Mrs. Park while Mr. Choi spoke with the judge in chambers. She clutched her teddy, her eyes scanning the crowd nervously.
And then, she froze.
The scarred man was there again, leaning casually against a vending machine. This time, he wasn't looking at her—he was speaking quietly to one of the jurors. A middle-aged man with nervous eyes.
The juror nodded, pocketing something small the scarred man slipped into his hand.
Hana's heart thundered. She tried to stand, to run and warn someone, but Mrs. Park placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Shh, Hana. Stay calm. It's just a break."
But Hana's sketchpad was already open.
Her pencil flew across the page. The vending machine. The juror. The scarred man's smirk. The passing of something between them.
When Mr. Choi returned, she shoved the drawing into his hands.
His eyes widened.
He looked down the hall—but the scarred man was gone.
Back in the courtroom, tension rose as testimonies continued. Witnesses spoke, character flaws of Hana's father were laid bare—his slow speech, his tendency to get confused, his inability to defend himself.
The prosecutor used it all. "This is not malice, ladies and gentlemen—it is incompetence. He did not know his strength, and tragedy followed. Sympathy does not erase guilt."
Hana's father bowed his head, tears streaming. He muttered softly, "I didn't… I didn't do it…"
Hana wanted to scream. To shout. To tear down the walls with her silence.
Instead, she slid another sketch to Mr. Choi: the juror, the bribe, the scarred man.
Mr. Choi's hands clenched around the paper. He looked at Hana, then at the jury box.
He knew.
The trial wasn't just about proving innocence anymore.
It was about survival in the crossfire.
That evening, Mr. Choi called Hana and Mrs. Park into his office. He locked the door behind them, his face pale with fury.
"He's inside the courtroom," he hissed. "Watching us, influencing the jury. This isn't just intimidation anymore—it's corruption. He's pulling strings where no one can see."
Mrs. Park gasped. "But the judge—"
"The judge won't believe us without proof," Mr. Choi snapped. "And the police? They'll say it's a child's imagination again."
He dropped into his chair, rubbing his face. "We need something undeniable. A recording, a witness, a mistake. Something we can slam on the table and say, 'Here. Look. This is him.' Until then, Hana is the only one who sees clearly."
Hana's small hand tugged at his sleeve. She pointed to her sketchpad, then to her teddy bear.
Her message was simple. I won't stop drawing. I won't stop showing the truth.
Mr. Choi's throat tightened. He knelt beside her. "Then we'll fight together. But Hana… you need to understand. Every time you reveal more, you put yourself in his line of fire."
Hana nodded. She understood.
And yet, when she closed her eyes that night, all she could see was the scarred man's smirk, the faint glow of his cigarette, and the juror's trembling hands.
The courtroom was no longer a place of justice.
It was a battlefield.
And she was right in the center of the crossfire.
To be continued…..