I don't open the file right away.
I let it sit there, thin and unimpressive, like it knows it doesn't belong on my desk. Like it's embarrassed to be seen with me.
"Minor theft," the cover says.
That's what they always give judges they don't trust. Crimes small enough to disappear.
Defendants disposable enough that no one will appeal when the verdict goes wrong.
I take off my coat. Then sit, the polyester heavy with the scent of stale coffee and rain, and opened the folder.
The accused is a man in his forties. Temporary worker. Prior warning, no convictions. Accused of stealing construction materials from a private warehouse. Value: low. Evidence: circumstantial. Security footage unclear.
The complainant is a subcontractor tied to a larger firm.
Of course.
I scan the statements.
Photos. Grainy security stills. A figure in a hoodie, back to camera, slipping through a side gate. Timestamp blurry. Inventory sheet with red ink circling missing items. Witness statements typed in perfect corporate font.
Nothing screams innocence.
Nothing screams guilt either.
Just enough rope to hang someone.
I close the file.
Rub my face until the skin hurts.
This isn't justice.
This is housekeeping.
—
The courtroom is half-full the next morning.
Not because the case matters—but because I'm presiding.
Curiosity has its own gravity.
I feel it the moment I step inside. Eyes flick up. Murmurs ripple, soft but sharp.
"That's him."
"The stuttering judge."
"Why'd they give him a bench?"
I keep my head level. Count my steps. Don't look at the gallery. The robe weighs more today.
The defendant stands when I enter. He looks thinner than his photo. Hands clasped tight. Eyes down. He doesn't look like a thief.
He looks like a man who's already lost.
The prosecutor doesn't bother hiding his boredom—barely glances up from his phone.
I take the bench.
Grip the edges until my knuckles pale
We begin.
"C-court is now in s-session," I say, voice steady for now. "P-prosecutor, y-you may p-proceed."
He does. Efficient. Polished. No wasted breath.
He lays out the accusation. Mentions the footage. Mentions the missing materials. Mentions the defendant's "financial motive."
I take notes. Short ones. Keywords only.
Then I look at the defendant.
"D-do you u-understand the c-charge against you?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
Clear. Firm. Too firm. People who lie often sound confident.
I nod once.
The prosecutor calls his witness. The warehouse manager. He was in his late forties, well-dressed, and radiated the kind of relaxed confidence that only comes from having a powerful benefactor. He walked into my courtroom like he owned the floorboards.
He started to speak. And that's when the room tilted.
Pressure behind my eyes.
Not pain.
Not sound.
Just the word.
[ Concealed. ]
I stiffened. My pen slipped from my fingers, clattering against the wood like a gunshot.
The word was there. It wasn't a hallucination of the eyes; it was a smear of gray smoke hovering over the manager's head, pulsating with a truth I wasn't supposed to know.
What the hell is happening to me?
I blink hard, remove the glasses and rubbing my eyes until I saw sparks. When I looked back, the smoke was gone.
I tell myself it's fatigue. Stress. The same bullshit voice from last night. Maybe I should see a doctor.
Still… my chest won't unclench.
The manager keeps going.
Claims the footage is unmistakable.
Claims the defendant was recognized by height, build, gait.
I watch his mouth.
[ Concealed. ]
There. Again. Clearer this time.
Not a voice. Not exactly.
More like a pressure. A certainty that isn't mine.
My pulse spikes.
No.
No, I'm not doing this.
I grip the edge of the bench. Ground myself. Wood. Cold. Real.
"C-cross-examination," I manage.
The defense attorney rises. Young. Underpaid. Already defeated.
He asks the expected questions. Gets the expected answers. Nothing breaks.
But the word doesn't leave.
[ Concealed. ]
I shouldn't.
I can't—
But my mouth moves before I finish arguing with myself.
"W-witness," I say. "Y-you stated the f-footage was c-clear."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"C-can you c-confirm the t-timestamp?"
He hesitates. He glances at the prosecutor.
"Uh… yes. It matches the log."
"R-reported by whom?"
"The company security team, Your Honor."
I lean forward. I could feel the sweat pooling at the small of my back.
"P-please s-submit the o-original f-footage f-file," I said, my voice hardening. "N-not the c-copy."
The prosecutor's head snaps up.
"That won't be necessary," the prosecutor says. "The copy is sufficient."
"It is n-not," I reply. My voice shakes, but I don't stop. "P-procedure r-requires—"
Silence stretches.
Gallery shifted, the murmurs turning from mockery to confusion. The manager's face stayed blank, but his hands&hidden beneath the witness stand, clenched into white-knuckled fists.
"Judge Han," he cuts in, smile tight. "This is a simple case."
Laughter ripples again.
My hands tremble.
[ Concealed. ]
I exhale.
"Then it w-won't b-be a p-problem," I say, each word deliberate, "t-to f-follow s-simple p-procedure."
Silence.
The prosecutor's smile fades.
For the first time since I took the bench, the room feels… alert.
I don't know what's happening to me.
I don't know why that word won't leave.
But I do know this:
They didn't give me this case to judge it.
They gave it to bury someone.
The manager's face stays blank.
But his hands are clenched now.
I don't flinch this time.
I adjourn for evidence submission.
Give them twenty-four hours.
The prosecutor requests a delay.
I deny it.
When I stand to leave, legs feel like lead.
I don't look at the defendant.
Don't look at the gallery.
But I feel the shift.
They didn't expect me to push.
They didn't expect me to see.
And tonight, when I get home, when the apartment is dark and quiet—my phone lights up.
Unknown number.
One message.
Be careful, Judge.
I sit at the kitchen table and place the phone face-down, like it might start speaking again if I let it see me.
The clock ticks. Too loud.
From the other room, I heard my mother's cough—a short, controlled sound. She was trying to hide her pain again. She carries her suffering like a secret, as if it's rude to let the world see her break.
I looked at my reflection in the dark kitchen window. I look… older than I should. Tired. Like a man who had spent his whole life trying to find the light, only to realize he was standing in a graveyard.
I swallow.
This job was supposed to make things lighter.
It only taught me new weights.
I rub my face, slow. My hands are shaking again. Not fear—fatigue. That deep, bone-deep kind that sleep doesn't touch.
[ Concealed. ]
The word tried to surface again, a ghost in my mind.
"No, s...stop." I whisper. Out loud this time.
The room doesn't answer.
Maybe it's just the stress. The sleepless nights. I should probably schedule a check-up if this keeps happening. Rule out anything serious.
I poured a glass of water and forgot to drink it. Tomorrow, I would go back. Tomorrow, I would follow the book. But the rot was no longer a theory.
The system hadn't just failed my father. It was currently devouring Lim Sang-ho.
And for the first time, I realized that being the "Unheard Judge" didn't mean I couldn't hear. It meant I was the only one who could hear the screaming beneath the floorboards.
~⚖️