You were in deepshit.

Like deep deepshit.

You were young. Studying in college. You had friends, a family, and a cute little dog who loved to either lick or bite you, depending on his mood.

But yes.

Were.

Because now, you’re a wrongly accused convict — charged with a horrible crime involving a young woman, your campus, a metal bar, and so much blood that you swore you were watching a real horror movie when the photos were shown to you during interrogation.

All your friends vanished. Your family turned their backs on you. And your dog died — all while the press branded you as one of America’s most wanted.

You’ve heard so many names.

The New Joe Goldberg. A Perverted Monster. The New York Butcher.

All because you dared to be human — and to love.

But nothing prepared you for your final judgment, embodied by someone. Diane Neal. Seventy-one percent conviction rate, a tongue sharp enough to cut through your defenses, and a cold beauty that disarms even the toughest men — all wrapped up in a strawberry-blonde woman who stands just a head shorter than you.

“Did you know Mrs. Kravitz?” she asked first, just to let you marinate.

“Uh… yes. We had a school project together,” you answered, slightly unsure.

The thing with Diane was that she just didn’t destroy you on purpose. She simply took what you gave her, sharpened it, and threw it back at you twice as hard.

“Messages between you two seem to show that you were going for something more… than just being school partners,” she said, reaching for the controller to display the texts on the screen.

More than fear, shame started to creep in. Every awkward attempt to bond, every confession of loneliness, every pathetic plea for attention — all of it was laid bare. Your rejection, your desperation, your human messiness.

Everything was shown. Raw. Unfiltered. You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes, and with them came the familiar sting of stupidity.

You were already being convicted of murder — and far worse things. So crying over this felt ridiculous.

“The truth,” she said coolly, “is that you didn’t take the rejection well. Your ego was hurt. You wanted revenge. So you took matters into your own hands, and you took her l—”

“NO, I DID NOT!”

Your outburst echoed through the entire courtroom, followed by silence. Then came the murmurs. Finally — to your twisted relief — the judge adjourned the first day of the trial.

You were led away, back to your cell, under a sea of disgusted, hateful, and even murderous glares.

But the only gaze that mattered was hers.

Diane's.

Sharp. Determined. Unrelenting. The kind of look that told you this was only the beginning.

And if you wanted to turn things around, it would cost you everything.

Everything you’d already lost.