Courtrooms always felt too bright, too cold, a theater for pain with nowhere to hide. Ji-hye sat on the hard bench, hands laced in her lap, trying to keep her breathing even as the sentence was read. Her ex-boyfriend, thinner now, cuffed and in the bland suit he'd been issued by the city, stared straight ahead—jaw clenched, no apology, no plea for mercy. Only the click of cameras, the murmur of reporters in the hall, and the dry monotone of the judge reading out years and conditions. The words washed over her: "guilty," "sentenced," "conspiracy," "five years with no parole." Her body felt both heavy and insubstantial, like a deep-sea diver forgetting which way was up.
Joon-ho's hand slid into hers. Warm, strong. She squeezed it hard, needing the proof that this was real—that it was finally over.
