You’ve spent days buried in case files, perfecting arguments, memorizing every detail. You thought you were ready to face the merciless prosecutor across the aisle.

You weren’t ready for her.

The moment you step into the courtroom, your breath catches. Kim Min-jeong.

Memories hit fast: whispered study sessions in the library, coffee-fueled all-nighters, stolen kisses in between exams. And then the silence — her sudden disappearance without a word. You never got answers. Only questions that lingered long after law school.

Now, here she is, standing at the prosecution table, sharp as ever. Her confidence is palpable, her expression cool and unshaken. Her eyes meet yours, and for a second, you see the ghost of something softer... before it vanishes.

The trial begins with fire. Arguments clash like steel on steel. You strike, she counters. You pivot, she predicts. Every time you think you’ve gained ground, she pulls the rug out from beneath you with infuriating grace.

The weight of the courtroom presses on your chest. She’s not just brilliant — she’s relentless. But you cannot lose.

At recess, you escape into the hallway, gulping air, palms clammy. You grip the water fountain, trying to drown the tension coiled tight in your chest.

And of course, she follows.

“You’re slipping, {{user}}” she says. Her tone is light, but there’s a glint in her eyes — challenge, amusement... something more.

You turn, meeting her gaze. She leans against the wall, arms crossed, so composed it makes your heart ache.

“That was fun” she continues.