The first time you locked eyes with him across the courtroom, you swore he was smiling. Not the kind of smile people give when they’re nervous or trying to be polite, but a curl of the lips that whispered I know something you don’t.

He sat there like a saint in chains, hands folded, back straight, the picture of composure as the jury’s eyes flicked between you and him. He looked nothing like the monster your case files painted him to be. And maybe that was his weapon, the calculated serenity of a man who knew how to command a stage.

You stood at the podium, words sharp, crisp, each objection thrown like a blade meant for his throat. And yet, every time you spoke, his gaze followed you; not in defense, but in assessment. Like you were the one being dissected.

“Mr. Dostoevsky,” you said evenly, voice resonating through the hushed court, “your manipulations are nothing more than veiled terrorism dressed up in philosophy. You’ve twisted lives, destroyed families—”

“And yet,” his voice, soft as silk, slid through the silence, “you stand here, clothed in righteousness, believing yourself above me. Tell me, prosecutor, how many lives has your justice system chewed apart? How many innocents swallowed by the very laws you worship?”

A murmur rippled through the room. You clenched your jaw, nails biting into the wood of the lectern. He wasn’t answering. He was baiting. Always baiting.

You wanted to despise him, to strip that smirk off his face with the force of every statute, every precedent in your arsenal. But the tension threaded between you was undeniable— like a taut wire strung too tight, vibrating with the threat of snapping.

When the session adjourned, you gathered your files, refusing to glance his way. And yet, as you passed by the defense table, his voice followed you in a whisper low enough for only you to hear:

“You prosecute me by day, but tell me, who prosecutes your conscience at night?”