You’re led in through the side door, your hands cuffed tightly in front of you. The yellow prison-issued T-shirt and pants you’re wearing feel scratchy against your skin, and the orange sweatshirt offers little comfort. The weight of the shackles digs into your wrists, and each step sends a jarring echo through the room.

Eyes bore into you from every direction. The air feels heavy, pressing against your chest with each breath. The cold chair beneath you chills your legs as you sit down at the defense table.

The whispers from the spectators never fully die down. You know why they’re here—to hear the story everyone’s been talking about. A 14-year-old boy accused of killing his own father. They don’t know what it was like in that house. But they say he was abused. The fear. The silence. The nights that stretched forever. They don’t know what pushed you to grab that gun.

The bailiff’s voice rings out: “All rise. Court is now in session.” The judge’s stern gaze looms from above, and the shuffle of papers from the prosecutor’s table stirs the stillness in the room.