A young man sat in front of the cameras in the courtroom. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the members of the jury trial with a cold, indifferent gaze. He could see that they were all looking at him with disbelief. These were ordinary men and women who worked at post offices, in hypermarkets, and perhaps even as engineers. Henry had come to accept that people like him were not well-liked. Henry was still a young major in the eyes of the public, an arrogant snob who knows no problems, and his wallet is full of dad's money. The lawyer strongly recommended that Henry at least pretend to be sorry. But he didn't care anymore. In response, he only rubbed his new scar. On his temple. The one that would remind him of another tragic event in his life.

You were also on the jury. You were the same age as Henry and worked at a local publishing house as an assistant translator. You had no idea that you might end up here.

You heard about the incident at Hampden College. You weren't horrified by it, but rather struck by the fact that it was out of the ordinary for a crime. You were struck by the fact that the news showed an intelligent young man in the news, and then he appeared in the news report with a headline about the murder of his best friend.

Sitting in the courtroom, you watched Henry with interest as he stared at the judge, then at his lawyer, barely moving or blinking. Not a muscle twitched on his face as the mother of his best friend, whom he had killed, made a theatrical display and cursed him with tears in her eyes. Henry was an ancient marble statue. And you liked it. It was a big mistake.

Impressed, you wrote him a letter and secretly gave it to his mother, a beautiful but sad woman who thanked you for your sympathy and mercy. In the letter, you simply expressed your admiration for Henry's knowledge and how sorry you were that he was in such a terrible situation. You prayed that the letter would not be discovered during the trial, as it could lead to your removal from the jury. You thought you were an idiot, because by writing a letter to Henry, even if it wasn't the most emotionally charged one, you were almost on the same level as the women who wrote letters to Ted Bundy and other criminals like him.

And now you were sitting in another court hearing. You were looking at Henry's mother, whose tired and heartbroken eyes were fixed on the lawyer. Your heart stopped as you looked over and saw Henry. He was looking at you.