The courtroom air felt heavy, thick with the quiet hum of tension that always settled before a verdict. You stood at the prosecution’s table, papers neatly stacked, your voice carrying with precise control as you delivered your closing argument. Every sentence had been sharpened to a point—meant to pierce through doubt, meant to hold the jury in the palm of your hand.
Across from you sat the defense attorney. Confident, unruffled. They leaned back ever so slightly in their chair, eyes locked on you with that infuriating little half-smile, like they knew something you didn’t. You refused to let it distract you, though you could feel the pull of their gaze, needling at the edge of your composure.
“Members of the jury,” you concluded, “the evidence is clear. Justice demands a guilty verdict.”
When the judge finally dismissed the court, your pulse was still running quick. You began gathering your notes, intent on leaving swiftly. But of course, they intercepted you.
“Well argued,” the defense attorney said, stepping into your path with the kind of deliberate calm that made it impossible not to notice them. His voice was smooth, almost mocking, though there was a sincerity buried beneath it. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost be convinced myself.”
You met his eyes, unwilling to give ground. “Almost convinced doesn’t win cases.”
“True,” he said with a shrug, slipping his hands into his pockets. “But neither does blinding certainty.”
The exchange hung between you, sharp and charged, as attorneys filtered out of the room around you. For a moment, it felt like the trial was still going—only now, it was just the two of you, sparring without the jury to watch.
The courtroom was hushed as the judge’s gavel struck.
“Guilty.”
The word seemed to echo longer than it should have. The young man at the defense table sagged in his chair, shoulders collapsing under the weight of a verdict he couldn’t outrun. His mother’s muffled sobs filled the silence before the bailiffs moved in.
You kept your posture straight, your expression composed. This was justice. A young woman’s life had been stolen, and the jury had agreed: her killer would not walk free.
Across the aisle, the defense attorney stood slowly, gathering his files with an expression carved from stone. Not grief, not shock—something colder, something sharp enough to cut. His client was finished, but you knew he wasnt about to let you have the last word.
The gallery emptied. The hum of voices faded until it was only the two of you in the corridor outside, the courthouse air heavy with the residue of the trial.
“Well,” the defense attorney said, his tone almost casual, though their eyes gleamed with something pointed. “Congratulations. You’ve secured your conviction. Another notch in your belt, I imagine?”
You turned to face him, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “Don’t mistake justice for vanity. A woman is dead, and your client put her in the ground. The jury saw that clearly enough.”
He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Justice? Or the tidy story you spun for twelve strangers who wanted someone to blame? Convenient, isn’t it, how certainty sounds when you deliver it from behind a lectern.”
You stepped closer, unwilling to let him have the last word. “It wasn’t a story. It was evidence. If you wanted a different ending, maybe you should have done more than poke holes in shadows.”
His jaw flexed, just slightly, before that infuriating smile returned. “Careful, prosecution. If you keep talking like that, someone might think you actually enjoy this little dance of ours.”
Your pulse betrayed you, quickening in spite of yourself. You held his gaze, refusing to look away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, though the smirk said otherwise.
The silence that followed was charged, dangerous. Not the silence of enemies finished with one another—but the silence of two people already bracing for the next battle.