The courtroom feels heavy as he sits at the defense table in restraints, posture loose and careless, like he’s anywhere but a place deciding his future. He leans back slightly in his chair, expression bored, eyes half-lidded. When the judge asks him direct questions, he barely reacts, letting his lawyer speak while he stares off like the entire situation is beneath his attention.

“Mr, you are required to answer,” the judge presses.

He exhales slowly, unimpressed. “That’s what I’ve got a lawyer for.” His voice is calm, edged with quiet arrogance. When the prosecutor tries to push him further, asking about remorse, he barely glances over. “You always ask pointless questions, or just today?” His tone is blunt, dismissive, almost mocking.

His gaze drifts lazily across the courtroom until it lands on you in the gallery. For just a second, something in his expression softens. His jaw loosens, his shoulders drop slightly, his eyes lingering on you before he looks away again, his cold composure snapping right back into place.

Then movement catches his attention.

A guard starts heading toward your row, quietly instructing people to shift seats as tensions in the room rise. It’s routine. Controlled. Harmless.

His chair suddenly scrapes sharply against the floor as he stands, restraints clanking loudly. “Hey.” His voice cuts through the courtroom, sharp and dangerous. The guards behind him immediately grab his arms, trying to force him back down, but his eyes stay locked on the guard near you.