Chapter Text
Paper and ink sat in his palm, regret and memory crowded his lungs. The folder meant to celebrate his future felt laughably light compared to what had lodged itself in his chest seven years ago. Around him, the law school courtyard erupted in laughter, proud tears, and the snap of cameras as families swarmed their triumphant graduates in a whirlwind of joy and relief.
Sunoo stood just outside the vortex of celebration, a still point in the moving world. He offered a small, polite smile to a classmate who waved, but he didn’t move to join any of the groups. His amber eyes, usually so observant and calm, were distant, looking past the sea of black gowns and caps.
The noise faded into a dull hum in the back of his mind. He had done it. Every late night in the library, every accelerated course, every practice exam, it had all been for this single, tangible result. But the result wasn’t this piece of paper. It was a key. A key to a cage.
He had the weapon now. The license. The right to speak in certain rooms. It was all he had wanted from this place.
His fingers, steady and sure, traced the embossed seal on the diploma cover. His mind, however, was somewhere else entirely. It was fixed on a file he had memorized years ago, on a photograph of a boy with sharp eyes and a future that was violently erased. A case everyone else had forgotten. A failure of justice so profound it had become his personal north star.
A classmate clapped him on the back, jostling him slightly. “Sunoo! We’re heading to celebrate! You in?”
Sunoo turned his head, the picture of polite composure. “Thank you, but I have a previous engagement. Congratulations to you all.”
His voice was even, pleasant, but it held a finality that discouraged further questions. He waited for them to move on, the faint smile lingering on his lips until they turned away. The moment they did, it vanished, replaced by a look of profound focus.
He didn’t look like a man who had just finished a long journey. He looked like a man about to begin one.
Pulling his phone from his robe, he ignored the notifications from well-wishers. Instead, he navigated to a private, password-protected folder. And simply looked at its name, a single, meaningless number to anyone else. To him, it was a promise.
He took a slow, deep breath, centering himself. The celebration behind him was for a dream achieved. His was for a reckoning about to begin.
Without another glance at the party, he turned and began to walk away, the tassel on his cap swaying gently. His first call wouldn't be to family or friends.
It would be to a clerk’s office to request a case file. A very specific, long-closed case file.
The black graduation robe was folded with a precision that bordered on ritual, placed neatly inside the box it came in. Sunoo had already changed into a simple, well-tailored button-down shirt and dark trousers, which was the uniform of his new life. The celebratory noise from the university was a distant memory, completely shut out by the quiet of his modest apartment.
The space was orderly, almost austere. Law textbooks stood in perfect rows on a shelf, and a single potted plant thrived by the window. The only hint of something more personal was a small, locked filing cabinet tucked into the corner of his small home office.
Sunoo approached it now. He produced a small key from his wallet and slid it into the lock. The click echoed softly in the quiet room. Inside, there were only a few files. He didn't need to look at the labels to find the one he wanted. His hand went directly to a thick, well-worn folder at the back.
He didn't open it. Not yet. Instead, he placed it on his clean desk, his fingertips resting on its surface for a long moment, as if drawing resolve from its contents.
His computer hummed to life. The screen illuminated his calm, focused face. He navigated past the standard legal databases, his login saved from his internship. His search was deliberate, his keystrokes measured.
Case Number: 7C-4492 Case Name: State v. Park
The screen loaded. A digital docket, years old. The charge: Murder in the First Degree. The verdict: Guilty.
Sunoo’s expression didn’t flicker. There was no gasp of horror, no grimace of anger. His stillness was absolute. He scrolled, his eyes scanning the official record with a terrifying efficiency, absorbing the cold, dry language of the state’s case. He wasn't reading for story; he was assessing structure, noting names of prosecutors and presiding judges, identifying the brittle points in the architecture of the conviction.
Slender hand reached for a pristine, new legal pad and a specific pen, a fine-point black ink he preferred for its clarity. At the top of the page, he wrote the case number. Beneath it, he began two columns.
On the left, he wrote: Official Narrative. On the right,he wrote: Fracture Points.
He began listing the key pillars of the prosecution's case under the left column. A supposed motive. A witness statement. A piece of circumstantial evidence.
With each point listed, his pen moved to the right column. Only wrote single, cryptic words next to each.
· Motive: "Inheritance" → "Family Dynamics"
· Witness: "Jolly (neighbor)" → "Timeline?"
· Evidence: "Fingerprint on vase" → "Context?"
It was the calm of a master strategist viewing a battlefield map, seeing not just the enemy's positions but the hidden weaknesses in the terrain.
Satisfied with his initial assessment, he picked up his phone. His voice was as composed as his demeanor when the line connected.
“Yes, hello. This is Attorney Kim Sunoo. I’d like to formally request the evidence locker log for case number 7C-4492… Yes, from the Park conviction. I’m reviewing the file for a potential appellate motion.”
He listened, his gaze fixed on the single, stark word he’d written at the very bottom of the legal pad, circled twice. A word that seemed entirely out of place next to the cold legal jargon.
The word was: “Sunshine.”
“Thank you,” he said into the phone, his voice never wavering. “I’ll be by tomorrow.”
He ended the call and placed the phone down softly. His eyes lingered on that circled word for a heartbeat longer, a silent, unreadable emotion finally flickering in the depths of his calm before it was gone.
The first move was made. The game was now begun.
Suddenly the quietness broke by a soft, persistent ringing of his personal phone. A number he didn’t recognize flashed on the screen, with a Seoul area code. Most new lawyers would let an unknown call go to voicemail, wary of scammers or desperate cold calls.
Sunoo’s calm, however, was a different breed. He calculated risk for a living. He answered on the third ring.
“This is Kim Sunoo.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end, filled with the sound of a shaky breath. An older man’s voice, weathered with a grief that had long since settled into the bones, spoke.
“Attorney Kim? Forgive me for calling you on… on your graduation day, I believe.” The man’s tone was polite, hesitant, but carried a weight of formality.
Sunoo’s posture straightened almost imperceptibly. ‘How does he know that?’ His inner thought was a swift, sharp bullet of assessment, but his voice remained a placid lake. “You have me at a disadvantage. To whom am I speaking?”
“Ah, forgive my rudeness. This is Park Jun-seo. I am... the uncle of Park Sunghoon.”
The name hung in the air between them. Sunoo’s fingers, which had been idly tracing the edge of his legal pad, stilled. His eyes flicked to the case file on his desk. ‘The uncle. The one who testified for the defense and failed.’
“Mr. Park,” Sunoo said, and his voice was careful, neutral. A professional acknowledging a fact. “How can I help you?”
“I… I heard a rumor.” The older man’s voice gained a sliver of strength, a desperate hope straining through the cracks. “A clerk at the courthouse, he is a friend of my son’s. He said a new attorney, fresh from law school, had requested the full evidence log for my nephew’s case. He said the name was Kim Sunoo.”
‘The legal world is a small, gossipy village,’ Sunoo thought, filing away the information on the clerk’s loose tongue for later. It was a vulnerability.
“I did,” Sunoo confirmed, neither denying nor elaborating.
Park Junseo’s breath hitched. “Then it is true? You are… looking at the case?” He paused, and his next words were heavy with a concern that bordered on paternal. “Attorney Kim, you must understand… this case, it… it destroyed many good people. The family that built it… they are powerful. They have long memories. For a new lawyer, taking this on as your first case…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. The warning was clear: This is professional suicide.
Sunoo listened, his expression unchanging. He understood the man’s fear. He was not naive. He had charted the risks for years. This call was simply a confirmation of the obstacles he had already mapped.
“Mr. Park,” Sunoo began, his voice measured and impossibly calm. “I am aware of the profile of this case. I am aware of the parties involved.”
“But why?” The question burst from the uncle, raw and confused. “Why this case? You have your whole career ahead of you. There are easier paths to making a name for yourself.”
‘Because seven years ago, your nephew was kind to me when no one else was. Because I built my entire life on the promise of tearing this lie apart.’ The truth was a silent scream behind his teeth.
He chose his words with the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel.
“The justice system,” Sunoo said, his tone cool and factual, “is built on the principle that every verdict must be sound. I have reviewed the public record for Case 7C-4492. I have identified… anomalies. Inconsistencies that, in my professional opinion, merit a second look.”
He was offering a legal rationale. A cold, intellectual reason. It was the only thing he could offer that would make sense to the outside world.
“It is not a matter of making a name,” he continued, his voice dropping a degree, becoming almost soft, yet no less resolute. “It is a matter of correct procedure. That is my interest.”
For a long moment the line was silent. Sunoo could almost hear the old man’s warring emotions, hope warring with fear, desperation wrestling with caution.
“You believe that?” Park Junseo finally whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You truly believe there were… inconsistencies?”
Sunoo’s gaze fell on the single, circled word on his notepad.
“Yes, Mr. Park,” he said, and for the first time, a sliver of unwavering conviction bled into his tone, warming the professional ice. “I do. And if I decide to take the case, it will be because the evidence... demands it.”
He heard a soft, muffled sob on the other end of the line. “Thank you,” the uncle breathed. “Just… thank you for looking. He… he is a good boy. He was.”
“I know,” Sunoo said quietly. The words were out before he could stop them, a personal slip he instantly regretted. He quickly corrected, reverting to his professional facade. “The file suggests as much. I will be in touch, Mr. Park. Thank you for your call.”
He ended the conversation before any more of his carefully constructed walls could crumble. He placed the phone down, the silence of the room rushing back in, now charged with a new energy.
The first ally had declared himself. The battle lines were being drawn. And Sunoo had almost revealed his hand for a memory of sunshine.
Sunoo’s laptop cast the only light in his apartment’s pre-dawn darkness. Over the past seventy-two hours, the orderly space had transformed into a war room. The once-pristine legal pad lay smothered beneath a dense web of arrows, questions, and case-law citations. Trial transcripts were stacked in neat, chronological towers.
He had barely slept, sustained by a quiet, burning focus that had long since eclipsed any fatigue. Before him on the screen was a document titled:
MOTION FOR POST-CONVICTION DNA TESTING OF PHYSICAL EVIDENCE PURSUANT TO STATUTE § 15-1-11
It was a dry, technical title for a document that held a life in its balance. The body of the motion was a masterpiece of legal precision, cold, unemotional, and devastatingly logical. It pointed out that while a partial fingerprint on the murder weapon had been a pillar of the prosecution's case, modern DNA testing techniques, which were not available or utilized at the time of the original trial, could now be applied to touch DNA on the same object.
‘The stepbrother’s prints weren't on file for comparison then,’ Sunoo thought, his mind racing ahead of the words on the screen. ‘But his DNA is easily attainable now. And if it’s on the vase alongside Sunghoon’s… it shatters their entire narrative.’
He was simply requesting to test. It was the perfect first move, a narrow, reasonable request that was hard for a judge to outright deny without looking obstructive. It was a foot in the door.
He read through the document one final time, his eyes catching on the key argument:
The requested testing has the scientific potential to produce new, materially relevant evidence. The Defendant’s liberty interest, and the State’s interest in the integrity of its verdicts, outweighs the minimal burden of permitting this testing…
‘Liberty interest.’ The sterile legal term for seven years of a man’s life, stolen.
Satisfied, he attached the document to a new email. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment. This was it. The point of no return. Filing this motion would put his name on the record. The stepmother’s family would know. The legal community would know. The jaded prosecutors in the District Attorney’s office would see a fresh-faced kid trying to overturn their closed case.
A previous engagement, he thought, the memory of his graduation day flashing briefly. ‘This is it.’
He began to type.
To: Clerk of Court, Central District Court Subject:Filing - Motion for Post-Conviction DNA Testing - State v. Park, 7C-4492
Attached: Motion_DNA_Testing_Park.pdf
Dear Clerk, Please find attached for filing the foregoing Motion for Post-Conviction DNA Testing on behalf of the Defendant, Park Sunghoon. I will be entering my notice of appearance as counsel of record concurrently. Respectfully, Kim Sunoo, Esq.
He attached a second document: a simple, single-page Notice of Appearance, formally stating to the court that he was now Park Sunghoon’s attorney.
Without any hesitation, he clicked send. The soft whoosh of the email leaving his outbox was the only sound in the silent room. It felt louder than any graduation applause.
Sunoo closed his laptop, plunging the room into darkness. He sat there for a long time, not moving, already planning his next step. Amber gaze, unfocused from hours of staring at legal text, drifted absently across the surface of his desk. It swept over the stacks of transcripts, the highlighted case law, his meticulously organized notes.
And then it stopped.
There, lying beside his keyboard, was the simple, black fine-point pen he’d been using all night. It was unassuming, the kind bought in multipacks. But as his eyes landed on it, his breath hitched in his throat.
His pupils dilated, the calm, collected mask he wore for the world melting away in an instant, replaced by a raw, wide-eyed vulnerability. Time seemed to fold in on itself.
‘This pen.’
It wasn’t just a pen.
His hand, usually so steady, trembled slightly as he reached for it. He picked it up, the lightweight plastic feeling suddenly immense in his palm.
The memory washed over him, vivid and warm. He could almost smell the chalk dust and old paper of the classroom.
‘He never asked for it back.’
A small, quiet laugh escaped Sunoo’s lips, a soft puff of air in the silent room. He had kept it. All these years. Through high school, through college, through law school. It had always been in his pencil case, then on his desk. A stupid, secret talisman. A quiet reminder of a boy who was kind without even thinking about it.
He had used it to take all his practice exams. He had used it to write his LSAT. And tonight, he had used it to draft the legal motion that he hoped would give that boy his life back.
He curled his fingers around it, the plastic warm from his grip. The professional resolve that had fueled him all night transformed, softening into something infinitely more personal and powerful.
‘He was innocent then,’ Sunoo thought, his heart aching with a fierce, protective tenderness. ‘And he’s innocent now. And he’s been waiting for someone to see it.’
Lawyer or not, he was still that nervous boy from middle school, only now he had the power to return the favor.
He brought the pen to his lips, pressing it gently against them, a silent and sacred gesture. A smile touched his eyes, small but radiant, breaking through the dawn’s grey light.
“I’ll do it, Sunghoon-ah,” he whispered into the quiet, his voice thick with a promise that was years in the making. “I’ll prove it to all of them. I’ll get you out.”
What began as strategy had turned into a vow, inked with the memory of the first thing Sunghoon had ever placed in his hands.
Approval arrived without ceremony, tucked inside a curt email sent a little after nine. The motion was granted. The state had forty-eight hours to produce the evidence for testing. Sunoo’s response was just as terse; a request for immediate access to his client to discuss the new developments.
Now, he walked down a sterile, echoing corridor that smelled of bleach and despair. His posture was perfect, his suit impeccable, his face a mask of professional calm. But his heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. The file folder in his hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
‘Breathe. You are his attorney. That is all. You are here to discuss the case. Nothing more.’
A uniformed guard led him to a stark, cold room divided by a thick plexiglass barrier. There were phones on either side. Sunoo sat on the hard plastic chair, placing his file on the ledge. He folded his hands to keep them from shaking.
Just as the door beyond the glass opened, time seemed to fold in on itself. Stepping through was the very boy who had unknowingly claimed a piece of Sunoo's heart back in middle school.
Air fled Sunoo's lungs in a silent, painful rush. Before him stood a stranger wearing the face of someone he once knew. The boy whose laughter had been effortless and whose smile had brightened entire rooms was nowhere to be found. In his place was a man worn thin by time and hardship. Broad shoulders slumped under the coarse prison uniform. His once-vibrant eyes were downcast, dulled by a fatigue that went far beyond physical exhaustion. It was the soul-deep weariness of a spirit crushed by years of injustice.
‘What did they do to you?’ The thought was a blade twisting in Sunoo’s gut. ‘My sunshine… they put it out.’
Sunghoon moved slowly, as if every step required immense effort. He didn’t look at Sunoo as he sat down. He simply picked up the phone on his side with a practiced, lifeless motion.
Swallowing hard, Sunoo forced his own hand to pick up the receiver. His voice, when he spoke, was miraculously even. A professional, neutral tone.
“Park Sunghoon? My name is Kim Sunoo. I’m your new attorney.”
Sunghoon’s eyes flickered up, meeting Sunoo’s through the glass for the first time. There was no recognition. None at all. Just a flat, empty look of someone who had long since stopped expecting good news. His voice, when it came through the phone, was low and raspy, stripped of its warmth.
“I didn’t request a new attorney.”
“I’m taking your case pro bono. I’ve filed a motion for new DNA testing on the evidence from your trial. The court has approved it.”
For a fraction of a second, a spark flickered in the depths of Sunghoon’s tired eyes. It was there and gone so fast Sunoo might have imagined it. Then, a slight, bitter twist of his lips. A smile that wasn’t a smile.
“Why?” The question was simple, laden with seven years of disappointment. “Why now? Why you?”
‘Because you gave me a reason. Because I’ve loved you since we were children. Because the thought of you in here has haunted me every single day.’ Sunoo’s inner monologue was a scream.
His outward response was cool and collected. “Because I’ve reviewed the trial transcripts, and I believe the state’s case was flawed. I believe there is a strong possibility you are innocent.”
He saw Sunghoon flinch, just slightly, at the word innocent. A word he must have stopped daring to hope for.
“You believe,” Sunghoon repeated, his tone hollow, as if testing the words of a language he’d forgotten. He looked away, his gaze drifting to some point on the wall. “Everyone believed the evidence before.”
“I’m not everyone,” Sunoo said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. He leaned forward slightly, the lawyer taking over. “I need to ask you some questions about the night your father died. I need to hear it directly from you.”
Sunghoon’s eyes slid shut for a moment. A pained expression crossed his features. “I’ve told the story so many times. It never changes. No one ever listened.”
“I,” Sunoo said, his voice dropping into something softer, almost a whisper, “am listening now.”
Sunghoon’s eyes opened. He finally, truly looked at Sunoo. Really saw the professional calm, the intense focus, the unwavering gaze. For the first time in years, someone was looking at him not like a monster, but like a client. Like a person.
A tiny, almost imperceptible crack appeared in the ice of his exhaustion.
He took a slow, shaky breath. “What do you want to know?”
And as Sunoo began to ask his first, carefully prepared question, he made a second, silent vow.
‘I will listen. I will remember every word. And I will find the spark they tried to extinguish. I will bring my sunshine back.’
Sunoo maintained his composed demeanor, though internally, every word from Sunghoon was being meticulously cataloged and cross-referenced with the case file in his mind.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” Sunoo said, his voice a calm, steady prompt through the phone. “The day it happened. You came home from school. What did you see?”
Sunghoon’s gaze was distant, fixed on a point on the wall as if watching the memory play out on the cold concrete. His voice was a flat, hollow monotone, worn smooth from years of retelling a story no one believed.
“I heard shouting from my father’s study. My stepbrother and him… they argued often. About inheritance. About the company.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I pushed the door open. And I saw… my father on the floor. My stepbrother was kneeling over him, his hands… his hands were covered in blood. There was a knife on the floor beside him.”
Sunoo’s pen hovered over his notepad. ‘Hemophilia, a knife. Even a shallow wound…’ The brutality of it made his stomach clench, but his face remained a mask of focused neutrality. “What did you do?”
“I-I just… stood there.” Sunghoon’s voice cracked with a shame that was clearly still fresh, even after all these years. “My stepmother came in behind me, she screamed. She shoved past me, to my father. She was crying, telling my stepbrother to call an ambulance, to help her get him to the car.”
‘The act,’ Sunoo thought coldly. ‘They knew he was already gone. They just needed the scene, the witnesses, the story.’
“They took him to the hospital. I was left there. Standing in the doorway. And then the police came. They found me there. They said my fingerprints were on the knife.” He finally looked at Sunoo, his eyes brimming with a pain so profound it was physical. “I had picked it up in shock, I didn’t know… I just saw it on the floor and picked it up. That’s all I did. That’s all.”
Sunoo gave a single, slow nod. It was a devastatingly simple and cruel frame-up. ‘They had used his moment of shock and horror against him.’ He asked a few more clarifying questions, etching the timeline into his mind.
After he had gathered all he needed for now, he began placing his papers back into his folder. “Thank you, Sunghoon. This has been very helpful. I’ll be in touch as soon as the DNA results come back.”
He started to stand, the visit officially concluded. But then Sunghoon’s voice, still raspy but now laced with a hesitant curiosity, stopped him.
“Attorney Kim?”
Sunoo paused, sitting back down and bringing the phone to his ear. “Yes?”
Sunghoon studied him through the glass, a faint frown on his face. “How... if you don’t mind me asking. You seem… young to be taking on a case like this.”
The question, so personal and so random, threw Sunoo for a microsecond. ‘He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t.’ “I’m twenty-three,” he answered, his tone even.
The reaction was immediate. Sunghoon’s eyes widened just a fraction before the shutters came down again. But Sunoo saw it. He saw the flicker of disbelief, the dashed hope. ‘He’s a year younger than me. What can he possibly do that others couldn’t?’
Sunoo understood the look perfectly. It wasn’t an insult; it was the logical conclusion of a man who had been failed by every adult in the system. Why would a rookie be any different?
Before Sunghoon could retreat fully behind his wall of despair, Sunoo spoke again. His voice was soft but carried an iron certainty that belied his age.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sunoo said, holding his gaze through the partition. “That someone older, with more experience, should be doing this.”
Sunghoon remained silent, which was confirmation enough.
“But sometimes,” Sunoo continued, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips, “it takes someone who hasn’t been around long enough to learn that something is impossible to actually go out and do it. Don’t judge my effectiveness by my age, Sunghoon. Judge it by my results.”
He stood up, a final, confident nod. “I will see you soon.”
He hung up the phone before Sunghoon could respond, turning and walking out without a backward glance. He left Sunghoon sitting there, a man who had been given nothing but hopelessness for seven years, now given a single, perplexing new data point. That a twenty-three-year-old lawyer who spoke with the conviction of a veteran and looked at him not with pity, but with a promise.
Back at his desk, Sunoo couldn't escape the memory of Sunghoon. His weary, hollowed face lingered behind every blink, etched into his mind with painful clarity. Page after page spread across the desk as he compared the testimony he'd just heard with the original witness statements.
Then, a soft buzz vibrated against the wood of his desk. His personal phone lit up with a notification. He glanced at it, ready to ignore it, but a small, unconscious smile touched his lips when he saw the name.
Jungwon: Hey lawyer-nim! You’ve been MIA since graduation. You can’t hide forever. Celebrate with me! My last class canceled. I’m free. Food is on me.
Sunoo’s first instinct was a gentle refusal. Every minute counted. The DNA analysis would take time, but he needed to build the rest of the case, find the cracks in the family’s story. He typed a quick reply.
“Can’t. Buried in work. Rain check?”
The response was immediate. Jungwon had always been persistent.
“Nope. Not taking no for an answer. You’ve been buried in work for 7 years. You’ll work better with food in you. It’s just a few hours. It’ll fresh your mind!”
Another buzz followed right after.
“Wait… don’t tell me. You actually got a case already? That case?”
Of course, Jungwon would guess. He was the only person on earth who knew the true, singular driving force behind Sunoo’s entire career. He was the keeper of the middle school crush, the silent witness to Sunoo’s years of obsessive studying. Jungwon had been there through it all, from kindergarten scraped knees to law school all-nighters.
‘He won’t let this go,’ Sunoo thought, a wave of fond exhaustion washing over him. ‘And he’s probably right. My brain is starting to fog.’
He typed back, a slight surrender.
“Fine. But only for a few hours. And yes, it’s that case.”
The reply was a torrent of triumphant emojis—a kicking foot, a trophy, a bowl of noodles.
“YES! Meet me at the usual spot in 20. And you’re telling me EVERYTHING. I need to know how my future brother-in-law is doing.”
Sunoo choked on air, a genuine laugh startling out of him at Jungwon’s audacity. His ears flushed pink. ‘He’s never going to let that joke die.’
“He’s not your future anything. And he doesn’t remember me. Don’t be late.”
He put the phone down, the smile still lingering on his face. The heavy weight of the case felt a little lighter. For a few hours, he could step out of the role of the relentless attorney and just be Kim Sunoo, having dinner with his best friend. He looked at the grim case file one more time.
‘For a few hours,’ he promised himself, ‘I can breathe.’ He grabbed his jacket, the first genuine break in his routine in weeks. Jungwon was right. He needed this.
Their usual spot was a cramped, steamy noodle shop tucked between two taller buildings, owned by an ajumma who had been feeding them since they were in school uniforms. The smell of rich broth and garlic was a welcome assault after the sterile air of the prison and his apartment.
Jungwon was already there, waving enthusiastically from a corner booth. Dressed in a comfortable tracksuit, his Taekwondo master's posture was still evident in his straight back and bright, attentive eyes.
“Took you long enough, Counselor,” Jungwon teased as Sunoo slid into the seat opposite him. “I was about to send a search party.”
“The traffic was searching for a parking spot,” Sunoo replied dryly, though the tension in his shoulders had already begun to ease. “And stop calling me that.”
“What? It’s true! My best friend is a legit lawyer now.” Jungwon’s grin was infectious. “So? Start talking. How is he?”
The ajumma arrived with two bowls of steaming kalguksu, cutting off Sunoo’s reply. They thanked her in unison, a well-practiced routine.
Once she was gone, Sunoo picked up his chopsticks, stirring the noodles absently. “He’s…,” he started, then paused, searching for the right word. “Tired... so tired, Won. He looks like they…” ‘…tried to break his spirit.’ He couldn’t say it. “He’s just tired.”
Jungwon’s playful demeanor softened instantly. “But you saw him. You talked to him. That’s huge.”
“He doesn’t remember me at all.” Sunoo said it as a simple fact, but a tiny flicker of wistfulness passed through him.
“Well, duh,” Jungwon said, slurping a noodle loudly. “You were basically a spy in middle school. You just stared at him from behind your books. The only thing he knew about you was that you were scary smart.” He pointed his chopsticks at Sunoo. “But now you’re his knight in a very well-tailored suit. It’s way cooler.”
Sunoo couldn’t help but laugh, a real, genuine sound. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m your best friend. It’s my job to be ridiculous and hype you up. So, what’s the plan? How are you going to smash this case wide open?”
As they ate, Sunoo found himself talking, the words flowing more easily than they had in weeks.
“...and they were supposedly in such a panic, trying to get him to the hospital,” Sunoo muttered, more to himself than to Jungwon, his legal mind clicking away even here. “But with a hemophiliac, a stomach wound… time would be absolutely critical. Every second.”
Jungwon listened, chin propped on his hand. “Sounds like they were more focused on the act than actually saving him.” He took a sip of his water. “Must’ve been a crazy scene. Did they even call an ambulance, or just throw him in the car?”
Sunoo’s chopsticks froze halfway to his mouth.
‘…throw him in the car.’
His eyes went distant, the noisy shop fading away. The police report. He’d read it a dozen times. It listed the stepmother as the one who called 911 from the house phone after they had already left for the hospital. The neighbors had testified to seeing the car speed away.
‘But the 911 call.’
His mind raced, pulling up the digital transcript he’d scanned.
“Sunoo? You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Was it a bad noodle?”
Sunoo slowly lowered his chopsticks. “The 911 call,” he whispered, his heart beginning to beat faster.
“What about it?”
“The transcript… it’s from the landline at the house. The stepmother made the call. But she told the dispatcher they were already on the way to the hospital.” He looked up at Jungwon, his eyes wide with dawning realization. “If she was in the car, driving frantically to the hospital with her bleeding husband… how could she have made a calm, detailed 911 call from the house phone?”
The playful glint in Jungwon’s eyes was replaced by sharp understanding. “She couldn’t have.”
“No,” Sunoo said, a spark of pure, undiluted triumph igniting in his chest. “She couldn’t have. Which means she was still in the house when she made that call. Which means they weren’t in a panic. They were following a script.”
He fumbled for his wallet, throwing down enough bills for both their meals. “I have to go. I have to listen to the audio of that call.”
Jungwon laughed, shaking his head in amazement. “I told you food would help! I’m a genius!”
Sunoo was already halfway out of the booth, his mind already back on the case, but he paused and looked at his best friend, a true, grateful smile on his face. “You are. Thank you, Won. For everything.”
“Go get ‘em, lawyer-nim,” Jungwon said, shooing him away with a grin. “And tell your boyfriend I say hi!”
Sunoo didn’t even bother to correct him this time. He was already out the door, the clue burning a hole in his mind, more valuable than any meal.
The noodle shop’s clue had electrified Sunoo. He practically flew back to his apartment, the world around him a blur. He barely-toed off his shoes before beelining to his laptop, the cozy dinner with Jungwon forgotten, replaced by the cold, sharp focus of the hunt.
He navigated to the court's digital evidence portal, his login credentials entered with practiced speed. His heart hammered against his ribs, not with anxiety, but with the thrilling pulse of the chase.
‘It has to be there. The audio file.’
Finally he found it. A digital entry labeled “State's Exhibit 12: 911 Call Recording.” He plugged in his headphones, his hand steady as he clicked play.
A woman's voice, pitched high with manufactured panic, filled his ears.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“My husband! He’s been stabbed! There’s so much blood! We’re taking him to Seoul General now!” The stepmother’s voice was a breathless wail. But as Sunoo listened carefully, he heard it. Beneath the performative hysteria, her words were too clear, too enunciated. There was no background noise. No roaring car engine, no yelling, no screeching tires. Just the sterile silence of a large, quiet house.
‘You’re not in a car. You’re standing in your marble foyer, reading from a script.’
He played it again and again. Each time, his certainty grew. This was the first tangible thread he could pull to unravel the entire tapestry of their lie.
He began to build his file, his movements a whirlwind of controlled energy.
File Name: Motion_to_Challenge_Evidence_911-Call.pdf
His fingers flew across the keyboard, drafting a new motion. This one was sharper, more aggressive than the first. This time he wasn’t merely requesting testing; he was challenging the integrity of the prosecution’s own evidence.
‘They built their timeline on this. They said she was a distraught wife rushing to save her husband. But if she was still at the house, calm enough to make a clear call... it means they had time. Time to stage the scene. Time to get their stories straight.’
He cited the lack of ambient noise in the recording. He contrasted her stated location with the acoustic evidence suggesting a static, indoor environment. He requested a forensic audio analysis to confirm his findings.
He attached the audio file to the motion, highlighting specific timestamps.
A week later, Sunoo stood before the judge in a modest courtroom. Opposite him sat the state’s attorney, a middle-aged man with a bored, condescending expression that clearly said, “I don’t have time for a rookie’s pet project.”
The judge, a stern woman with sharp eyes, peered over her glasses. “Counselor Kim, you’ve filed a rather… unusual motion concerning the 911 call in State versus Park. The court has read your submission. Mr. Choi,” she said, addressing the state’s attorney, “what is the state’s position?”
Mr. Choi stood, smoothing his suit jacket. “Your Honor, this is a waste of the court’s time. This case is closed. The defendant was convicted by a jury of his peers based on overwhelming evidence. This… theory… from newly-minted counsel is baseless speculation. The 911 call is what it is: a call from a panicked wife.”
Sunoo waited, his posture calm. He let the man finish. He could feel the dismissive energy radiating from him.
‘He hasn't even listened to it again. He's relying on the old transcript. Mistake.’
“Counselor Kim?” the judge prompted.
Sunoo rose. “Thank you, Your Honor.” His voice was clear and carried easily in the quiet room. He didn't look at Mr. Choi. He kept his focus entirely on the judge.
“The state’s attorney is correct that the call is from a panicked wife. However, the issue is not her emotional state, but her physical location.”
He picked up a copy of his motion. “The prosecution’s timeline, which was crucial to securing the conviction, hinges on the family immediately rushing the victim to the hospital. Yet, in this recording, there is a complete absence of the acoustic hallmarks of a moving vehicle. What you hear, Your Honor, is the distinct echo of a large, empty space. The family’s own foyer, to be precise.”
Mr. Choi scoffed. “Your Honor, this is audio forensics by imagination. There’s no proof—”
“Which is precisely why I’ve requested a proper forensic analysis,” Sunoo interjected smoothly, still not looking at him, his tone respectful but firm.
“The state entered this recording into evidence to prove their version of events. I am simply asking the court to ensure that evidence can actually bear the weight they placed upon it. If the witness was not where she claimed to be during this call, it directly impeaches her entire testimony and the foundation of the state’s timeline.”
He finally turned to Mr. Choi, his gaze cool and unwavering. “The state should want to ensure the integrity of its own evidence, shouldn’t it? Unless, of course, they’re afraid of what an analysis might reveal.”
It was a direct, calculated challenge. Sunoo saw a flicker of uncertainty in the older attorney’s eyes. He hadn't been prepared for this. He thought he was dealing with a naive kid, not a strategic opponent who had dissected his case.
The judge watched the exchange, her expression thoughtful. She looked down at Sunoo’s motion again.
“The court is inclined to agree with Counselor Kim,” she said finally. “The motion for a forensic audio analysis is granted. The state will provide the original recording to a certified expert, to be chosen jointly by both parties. We’ll adjourn until that analysis is complete.”
The gavel cracked.
Sunoo didn't smile. He simply gave a slight, respectful bow to the judge. As he gathered his papers, he could feel Mr. Choi’s irritated stare burning into him.
‘Good. Let him be irritated. Let him be nervous. The first domino has been tapped. Now, they’ll start to fall.’
The procedural victory in the courtroom felt good, but it was abstract. It was a line in a legal document, a step in a process. For Sunoo, the law was a means to an end. And the end was the man sitting inside that building.
He found himself standing outside the prison gates once more, but this time not with a file folder. In his hand was a simple, insulated lunch bag. Inside were containers of homemade japchae, still warm, and some fresh kimbap. It was simple, comforting food. The kind you might bring to a friend who was sick.
‘He looked so thin,’ Sunoo thought, the memory of Sunghoon’s hollow cheeks and tired eyes propelling him forward. ‘The food here must be… functional. He needs to know someone is thinking of him.’
He went through the security checks, the guards eyeing the lunch bag with immediate suspicion.
“You can’t bring that in,” one guard stated, his voice flat and final. “Outside food isn’t permitted. Contraband risk.”
Sunoo’s calm demeanor didn’t flicker, but his grip on the bag tightened slightly. ‘Contraband? As if I’d risk him for anything.’ “Officer, I understand the protocol,” Sunoo said, his voice respectful but firm. “It’s just homemade food. You are welcome to inspect every container. My client has had a difficult week, and his family asked me to ensure he gets a decent meal. It’s a matter of basic well-being.”
The guard looked unmoved. Sunoo pressed on, his tone shifting subtly from request to reasoned argument. “He is still an innocent man in the eyes of the law until his appeals are exhausted. Denying him a simple comfort that poses no security threat once inspected seems unnecessarily harsh, don’t you think?”
There was a tense silence. The guard finally gave a curt nod to his colleague. “Fine. Open it. Everything gets inspected.”
Sunoo patiently unzipped the bag, opening each container. The savory smell of sesame oil and vegetables briefly cut through the sterile air. The guard poked through the food with a gloved hand, finding nothing but rice, noodles, and vegetables. With a grunt of approval, he sealed the containers back up and shoved the bag toward Sunoo. “Make it quick.”
Sunghoon was already in the visitation room when Sunoo entered. He looked slightly less drained than the first time, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes at the unusual sight of his lawyer carrying a lunch bag.
They picked up their phones. “Attorney Kim,” Sunghoon said, his eyes darting to the bag. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Sunoo said, his voice softening. He pushed the insulated bag through the small slot usually used for documents. “This is for you.”
Sunghoon stared at it as if it were a foreign object. He made no move to take it. “What is it?”
“Food. Your… your uncle asked me to bring it. He said it’s your favorite.” The lie slipped off his tongue, smooth and effortless. ‘He can’t know it’s from me. He’d reject it. He doesn’t trust kindness yet.’
Sunghoon’s brow furrowed. He looked from the bag back to Sunoo’s face, a deep, bewildered skepticism in his gaze. “My uncle? He sent this? With you?”
“He was concerned about you. He wanted to come himself, but he couldn’t today. He asked me to deliver it.”
Sunghoon continued to stare at him, and Sunoo could see the questions swirling behind his eyes. The kindness didn't fit the narrative of his world. It was an anomaly.
“Why?” The question was barely a whisper, loaded with seven years of disappointment. “Why are you doing all of this? Taking my case. Fighting with the guards over food. Running errands for my uncle? You don’t owe me anything.”
‘Because I owe you everything. You're the foundation of my life.’ Sunoo’s heart ached with the words he couldn’t say.
He met Sunghoon’s confused gaze, his own expression the picture of professional courtesy. “It’s my job, Sunghoon.” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “A good lawyer fights for his client in every way he can. Even the small things. Now, please eat it before it gets cold.”
He nodded toward the bag, effectively ending the conversation. Sunghoon slowly, hesitantly, pulled the bag toward him. His fingers brushed against the insulated fabric, and for a fleeting second, Sunoo saw the ghost of something vulnerable and young in his expression—a glimpse of the boy he’d been before the world broke him.
“Thank you,” Sunghoon murmured, not looking up.
Sunoo simply nodded, his mission accomplished. He had given him a warm meal and, he hoped, a small, quiet message: You are not forgotten. Even if the message had to be delivered under a false name.
Heavy prison gate clanged shut behind Sunoo, the sound sealing away the brief, fragile moment of connection. The image of Sunghoon’s hesitant fingers pulling the food closer was a small, warm ember in his chest. He allowed himself a single, deep breath of the outside air, mentally preparing to return to his research, to the fight.
“Kim Sunoo.”
The voice was smooth, familiar, and utterly unwelcome. It came from the shadow of a sleek, black sedan parked just beyond the curb. Mr. Choi, the state’s attorney, leaned against the car, arms crossed. He had changed out of his court suit into something more expensive but no less severe. He hadn’t been waiting; he had been lying in wait.
Sunoo’s step didn’t falter. He didn’t even glance in the man’s direction, his calm mask instantly back in place. He continued walking toward his own modest car.
“I said,” Mr. Choi repeated, his voice hardening, “Kim Sunoo. We need to talk.”
This time, Sunoo stopped. He turned slowly, his expression one of polite, professional puzzlement. “Mr. Choi. Is there a matter regarding the case we need to discuss? The judge’s order seemed quite clear.”
Mr. Choi pushed off from the car, a cold, humorless smile on his face. “Let’s not pretend this is about a judge’s order. This is about you. A very bright, very young lawyer with a very promising future ahead of him.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone that made Sunoo’s skin crawl. “A future that could be made much, much easier.”
‘Here it comes,’ Sunoo thought, his internal compass spinning from legal strategy to pure contempt. ‘The offer.’
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Sunoo said, his voice flat.
“I think you do,” Mr. Choi countered. “The Park family is… influential. They’ve been through a terrible tragedy. This… relentless digging you’re doing… it’s reopening old wounds. It’s painful for them.”
“My client’s wrongful imprisonment is also fairly painful, I’d imagine,” Sunoo replied, his tone icy.
Mr. Choi’s smile tightened. “Be that as it may. They are reasonable people. They see your… determination. They’re willing to show their appreciation if you were to decide that this case is… more trouble than it’s worth.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. “A significant financial appreciation. Enough to set up a practice anywhere you’d like. You could take on easier cases. Have a comfortable life. This path you’re on… it only leads to trouble.”
The sheer audacity of it, the casual corruption, sent a flash of white-hot anger through Sunoo. ‘They think I can be bought. They think everyone has a price. They think I’m doing this for money, for a career?’
He looked Mr. Choi directly in the eye, his own gaze devoid of any warmth, any hesitation. The calm he projected was no longer just professional; it was glacial.
“Are you offering me a bribe, Mr. Choi?” Sunoo asked, his voice dangerously quiet. “On behalf of your clients, are you attempting to obstruct justice and suborn the legal process?”
Mr. Choi’s smug expression faltered for a second. He hadn’t expected such a direct, confrontational response. He recovered quickly, shifting to a threat. “I’m offering you advice, son. Good advice. The kind of people you’re antagonizing… they don’t play by the same rules you do. They win. It’s what they do. You’re going to lose this case, and in the process, you’re going to ruin your reputation before it even begins. Walk away. Take the money. It’s the smart move.”
Every word solidified Sunoo’s resolve. They were afraid. His digging, had them scared enough to try this desperate, clumsy tactic.
Sunoo took a step forward, closing the distance between them. He was younger and less experienced, but in that moment, his unwavering certainty made him seem taller.
“Let me be equally clear,” Sunoo said, his voice low and precise, each word a shard of ice. “I am not your ‘son.’ And I am not for sale. Tell your clients that their money is worthless here. The only thing I’m interested in is the truth. And I will not stop until everyone sees it.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Mr. Choi standing speechless by his expensive car.
As he slid into his own driver’s seat, his hands were steady on the wheel. The ember of warmth from seeing Sunghoon was now a roaring fire in his chest.
‘The show is just getting more interesting.’
The bribe attempt wasn't a setback; it was a confirmation. Sunoo knew he was on the right path, and that path now led him away from legal databases and into the field. The Park family's influence was a wall, so he would have to find a way around it. He couldn't arrive as Attorney Kim Sunoo, the man already on their radar. He needed to be a ghost.
He scrolled to Jungwon's number.
“I need a favor. A non-taekwondo, non-lawyer favor.”
The reply was instant.
“Ooooh, secret agent favor? I'm in. What's the mission, 007?”
Sunoo smiled faintly. Jungwon’s enthusiasm was a battery he could always recharge from.
“I need to talk to the neighbors near the Park estate. The ones who gave statements years ago. If I go as a lawyer, they'll clam up or the family will find out.”
“Say no more. You need a cover story. And a wingman. I’ll be a journalism student working on a thesis about… urban community dynamics! And you’re my quiet, nerdy research partner who takes notes. We’re surveying people about neighborhood changes. Perfectly boring, no red flags.”
Sunoo felt a wave of gratitude. Jungwon was brilliant at this.
“Perfect. Meet me in thirty. And dress… normally.”
“You mean not in a dobok? ;) See you soon, note-taking nerd.”
An hour later, they were standing on the elegant, tree-lined street where the Park family estate was located. Sunoo had swapped his sharp suit for a simple sweater and jeans, and carried a clipboard instead of a leather briefcase. He looked like a graduate student, which was the point.
Jungwon, ever the charismatic one, took the lead, knocking on doors with a bright, harmless smile.
“Good afternoon! Sorry to bother you,” he’d chirp, launching into his spiel about his totally fake urban studies thesis. Most people were polite but dismissive, giving short answers about property values and noise complaints.
Sunoo stood slightly behind him, nodding politely, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the houses, the sightlines, the security cameras. He was listening, but not to their answers about neighborhood changes. He was waiting for an opening.
At one house, an older woman, Mrs. Lim, seemed more talkative than most. She mentioned having lived on the street for over forty years.
“...oh yes, seen it all change,” she said, shaking her head. “Such a shame, what happened to the Parks. That terrible business.”
Jungwon glanced subtly at Sunoo. This was it.
“It must have been so frightening,” Sunoo said, his voice softer, more empathetic than his usual courtroom tone. He adjusted his glasses, the picture of a sympathetic academic. “To have something like that happen so close by. Did you… see or hear anything that day? It must have been so chaotic.”
‘Please... Just one detail. One thing that didn't make it into the official report.’
Mrs. Lim’s face clouded. “Oh, it was. Police everywhere. Such a tragedy.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “You know, I always thought it was strange…”
Sunoo’s pen hovered over his clipboard. Jungwon held his breath.
“What was strange, ma’am?” Sunoo prompted gently.
“The car,” she said, her eyes getting a faraway look. “They said they were in such a panic to get to the hospital. But I saw them from my window. The son, he was just… sitting in the passenger seat. He wasn’t helping his mother with his father at all. He was just sitting there, staring straight ahead. He didn’t look panicked. He looked… blank. And he was wiping his hands on a rag, over and over. I remember thinking it was an odd thing to do when your father is dying.”
It wasn't proof, but it was a crack. A witness seeing the stepbrother's behavior, his possible attempt to clean evidence off his hands before they left, not in a panic, but with a cold, numb detachment.
“That is very strange,” Sunoo murmured, scribbling notes on his clipboard as if it were for a demographics project. “People react to trauma in different ways, I suppose. Thank you for your time, ma’am. You’ve been very helpful.”
As they walked away from the house, Sunoo’s mind was racing, piecing it together with the 911 call.
“She was still in the house making the call,” he muttered to Jungwon, his voice low and excited. “And he was in the car, already wiping down, already disassociating from the act. They weren’t a family in crisis. They were co-conspirators executing a plan.”
Jungwon bumped his shoulder against Sunoo’s, a grin on his face. “See? I’m an excellent journalism student. We got a clue!”
Sunoo allowed himself a small, real smile, looking at his friend. “You’re a natural. Thank you, Won.”
As the two friends headed back to the car, Mrs. Lim's testimony continued to occupy Sunoo's thoughts. He replayed every word she had said, examining each detail for clues he might have overlooked.
“Whoa—” Suddenly, the toe of his shoe caught hard against an uneven stone. Gravity gave way, sending him pitching forward directly onto Jungwon's back.
Jungwon caught the sudden weight instantly, twisting around to steady him with a firm grip. “Careful. You alright?”
“Yeah, sorry,” Sunoo muttered, automatically raising a hand to rub at his nose where it had bumped against Jungwon's shoulder.
Straightening up, he looked back over toward the patch of ground that had tripped him. Sharp eyes, meticulously trained to notice the slightest discrepancies, scanned the dirt absently at first but then a cold instinct flared violently in his chest. Intuition screamed that this clumsy little interruption wasn't an accident; it felt like a visceral warning to check the area over.
“Hold on,” Sunoo said abruptly.
Jungwon followed his gaze. “What? Did you lose something?”
“No,” Sunoo murmured, his curiosity piqued. “But someone else might have.”
He knelt, ignoring the dampness seeping through the knees of his jeans. Jungwon, ever the loyal partner-in-crime, crouched beside him, instantly on alert. “What is it?”
“My instinct... held me on.” Using his pen, Sunoo carefully scraped away the top layer of loose mulch. The earth beneath was softer, easier to move than the packed ground around it.
His pen hit something solid. Something smoother. He swapped the pen for his fingers, carefully brushing away the dirt.
A glint of metal and leather emerged.
It was a man’s luxury watch, expensive and heavy. The face was scratched and dirt was packed into the links of the bracelet, but it was unmistakably a high-end timepiece. And it was frozen at a specific time.
“Whoa,” Jungwon breathed, his eyes wide. “Is that…”
Sunoo didn’t answer. He carefully picked it up, his heart starting to hammer against his ribs. He turned it over. On the back, engraved in elegant script, were two initials: J.P.
‘Jay Park. Sunghoon’s step brother...’
His mind, always connecting dots, began to race.
‘Why bury a watch? It’s valuable. Unless… it’s evidence.’
He looked at the frozen time on the face. The hands were stopped.
“The crystal is shattered,” Sunoo said, his voice low with dawning realization. He held it up for Jungwon to see. “It was smashed. During a struggle.”
The pieces clicked into place with terrifying clarity.
“Given the hemophilia… it wasn’t just the knife,” Sunoo whispered, his eyes locked on the watch. “A struggle. The father grabs his son’s wrist. The watch smashes against something. The broken crystal… it would have cut him. Even a small cut…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The image was horrifyingly clear; the stepbrother, in a rage, attacking his father. The father, defending himself, grabbing his arm, smashing the watch. The first blood drawn wasn’t from the knife; it was from the shattered timepiece.
“They buried it,” Jungwon said, understanding lighting his features. “The stepbrother must have been wearing it. It had his father's blood on it from the first wound. They couldn’t let the police find it. It placed him right in the middle of the violent struggle. So they ripped it off and buried it here, right before they called 911 and staged the scene.”
Sunoo carefully wrapped the watch in a clean handkerchief and placed it in his pocket, handling it like the crucial evidence it was. It felt heavy, imbued with the violence of that day.
“This is it, Won,” Sunoo said, standing up, his voice thick with a mixture of revulsion and triumph. “This is the proof that shatters their entire story. This proves the stepbrother was in a physical altercation with the victim. This proves they tampered with evidence.”
He looked at the grand, silent house, no longer just a stage for a play, but a crime scene with a secret buried in it's garden.
And now, he had dug it up.
“The defense calls Mrs. Lim to the stand,” Sunoo announced, his voice calm but projecting to every corner of the room.
He guided Mrs. Lim through her account of that day. She spoke haltingly at first, then with more conviction, describing the scene she’d witnessed from her window.
A murmur ran through the courtroom. Sunoo pressed his advantage. “So, he wasn’t acting like someone trying to save his father? He was acting like someone… cleaning up?”
“Objection!” Mr. Choi boomed, rising to his feet. “Calls for speculation.”
“Sustained,” the judge said. “Rephrase, Counselor.”
Sunoo nodded. “What did his demeanor suggest to you, based on what you saw?”
“It suggested he wasn’t right,” Mrs. Lim said firmly. “It was strange.”
Sunoo thanked her and sat down. It was Mr. Choi’s turn.
He approached Mrs. Lim with a pitying smile. “Mrs. Lim, you’re quite elderly, aren’t you? And this event was seven years ago. Memory can be so unreliable, especially at a distance, through a window, during a traumatic event.”
He was gentle, but his words were daggers, designed to dismantle her credibility. He implied she was a confused old woman, her memory warped by time and drama. By the time he was done, Mrs. Lim looked flustered and unsure of herself. The impact of her testimony was weakened.
‘He’s good,’ Sunoo thought, his jaw tightening. ‘He doesn’t fight the fact; he poisons the source.’
Next, Sunoo presented the watch. He explained its discovery, the engraved initials, the shattered crystal frozen in time.
“This watch belonged to Jay Park,” Sunoo stated, holding it up for the court to see. “It was found buried on the property. We posit it was worn by the assailant during the struggle. The shattered crystal, which could have caused a cut, combined with the victim’s hemophilia, makes it a crucial piece of evidence that was deliberately concealed.”
The judge leaned forward, her interest palpable.
Mr. Choi merely sighed, as if bored by a child’s fanciful story. “A dramatic theory, Counselor Kim. But it is just a theory.” He turned to Park Jay. “The state calls Park Jay to the stand.”
Jay rose smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks. He took the oath with a solemn, respectful tone.
Mr. Choi led him gently. “Mr. Park, is this your watch?”
“It is,” Jay said, his voice dripping with feigned sadness. “It was one of my favorites. A gift from my mother. It was stolen in a break-in we had months before his death. We were all devastated. To think it was buried in the garden all this time…” He shook his head, a perfect picture of grieving bewilderment.
Sunoo stared, his blood running cold. ‘A break-in, huh? He’s cunning.’
“And the allegations about your behavior in the car?” Mr. Choi asked, oozing sympathy.
Jay’s face crumpled into a mask of pain. “I was in shock. My father was… there was so much blood. I couldn’t process it. I don’t even remember holding a cloth. I think I might have been trying to… I don’t know, stop the bleeding? My memory of that day is… fragmented. It was the worst day of my life.” He delivered the performance perfectly, vulnerable and heartbroken.
‘He’s using trauma as a shield. He’s explaining away every inconsistency with grief and shock. It’s brilliant and despicable.’
When it was Sunoo’s turn for cross-examination, he stood, his heart pounding but his mind clear. He had to break this performance.
“Mr. Park, you claim the watch was stolen months prior. Yet it was buried just on the edge of your property. Did the thief simply stop to dig a hole before fleeing?”
A slight tick in Jay’s jaw. “I wouldn’t know the mind of a criminal.”
“Convenient,” Sunoo said coolly. “And this ‘shock’ you were in. It didn’t prevent you from helping your mother stage a frantic 911 call from inside the house while you sat motionless in the car, correct?”
Jay’s eyes flashed with a venom he quickly masked. “I told you. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember,” Sunoo repeated, letting the skepticism drip into his voice. “But you clearly remember a burglary from months before that just happens to explain this buried evidence?”
“Objection! Badgering the witness!” Mr. Choi shouted.
“Withdrawn,” Sunoo said smoothly, not breaking eye contact with Jay. The message was sent; I see through you.
The back-and-forth continued, a tense duel. Both sides had points. Both sides had counterpoints. It was a stalemate.
Finally, the judge held up a hand, cutting off another of Sunoo’s questions. “This is getting us nowhere,” she declared, her tone weary. “We are simply rehashing the same points with no new conclusive evidence. The court is not swayed definitively in either direction based on today’s testimony.”
She looked at the clock. “Court is adjourned for the day. We will reconvene tomorrow to hear arguments on the admissibility of the watch and the validity of the DNA testing motion. This matter is far from settled.”
The gavel cracked, the sound abrupt and unsatisfying.
Sunoo watched as Park Jay stood, a faint, smug smirk touching his lips before he wiped it away, replacing it with a look of somber exhaustion. He’d held the line. He’d survived the day.
Mr. Choi gathered his papers, giving Sunoo a look that said, “You see? This is what you’re up against.”
Sunoo didn’t react. He slowly gathered his own things, the buried watch feeling heavier than ever. He hadn’t lost. But he hadn’t won.
‘It’s not over,’ he thought, his resolve hardening like steel. ‘He’s clever, but he’s lying. And every lie has a weak point. I just have to find it.’
The battle was won by no one today. But the war was still very much on.
Day’s inconclusive battle replayed in Sunoo’s thoughts, thin and hollow. He’d stopped for food again, a warm container of doenjang jjigae, something hearty and comforting.
He went through the now-familiar routine with the guards, his insistence on bringing the food now met with resigned, grumbling compliance. His mind was already rehearsing how he would gently update Sunghoon on the day’s events, focusing on Mrs. Lim’s bravery and the discovery of the watch, trying to spin hope from the day’s frustration.
But every thought, every plan, shattered the moment Sunghoon was led into the visitation room.
He was moving slower than usual, his posture more hunched, as if protecting his core. And there, on his face, was a fresh, angry bruise blossoming across his left cheekbone. A split lip, newly scabbed over, marred his handsome features. His knuckles, wrapped around the phone receiver, were raw and scraped.
Sunoo’s blood ran cold. The container of soup felt suddenly heavy and useless in his hand.
‘No. What did they do to you?’
He forced his legs to carry him to the seat, his lawyerly composure the only thing holding him together. His voice, when he spoke into the phone, was tighter than he intended, strained with a barely contained fury.
“Sunghoon,” he began, his eyes fixed on the bruises. “What happened?”
Sunghoon wouldn’t meet his gaze. He looked down at the scratched surface of the ledge, a flush of shame coloring his neck. “It’s nothing. I....fell. Slipped in the showers.” The lie was hollow, pathetic. They both knew it.
“Don’t,” Sunoo’s voice was sharp, a command that made Sunghoon flinch. He immediately softened his tone, the anger dissolving into a wave of aching protectiveness. “Please. Don’t lie to me. Tell me what happened.”
There was a long silence. Sunghoon’s shoulders slumped in defeat. When he finally spoke, his voice was a broken whisper, stripped of the last vestiges of pride.
“They said I was getting… too confident. That my new lawyer had a big mouth. That I needed to remember my place.” He finally risked a glance at Sunoo, and the look in his eyes was one of pure, unadulterated fear. “They said to tell you to back off. Or next time, it won’t be just a… warning.”
The world narrowed to the sight of Sunghoon’s bruised face. The Park family’s threat had turned real. This was no longer money or influence, it was pain, and it was personal. They were hurting him, torturing him, to get to Sunoo.
A white-hot, murderous rage unlike anything he had ever known surged through Sunoo. It took every ounce of his willpower not to slam his fist against the glass. ‘They are touching him. They are hurting him because of me.’
“This is my fault,” Sunoo breathed, the words tasting like ash. “They’re doing this because of me. Because I won’t stop.”
For the first time, Sunghoon’s eyes held his, and there was a flicker of something other than fear. A faint, bewildered confusion. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Why won’t you stop? They’ll never let you win. They’ll just… they’ll just keep doing this. Why are you putting yourself through this? Why are you… why are you even here?”
The questions hung in the air between them, heavy and desperate.
‘Because I love you. Because I have loved you since I was a boy. Because the thought of you in here has been a constant ache in my heart for seven years. Because seeing you like this is killing me.’
The words were a scream in his soul. But he couldn’t say them. Not here. Not like this.
He looked at Sunghoon, at the fresh wounds inflicted to send him a message, and his resolve crystallized into something harder than diamond. He would not be intimidated. He would not back down. To stop now would make Sunghoon’s suffering meaningless.
He leaned forward, his gaze intense, unwavering, pouring every ounce of his conviction into his words.
“I am here,” Sunoo said, his voice low, fierce, and absolutely certain, “because you are innocent. And I am going to prove it. They can try to scare me. They can try to hurt you. But it only makes me more certain that they are guilty. And it only makes me fight harder.”
He pushed the container of soup through the slot. “Eat, please. Keep your strength up.”
He stood up, unable to bear the sight of the bruises for another second without breaking down.
“I will see you tomorrow,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. It was a promise.
He hung up the phone and turned away, walking out of the visitation room with a new, terrifying fire in his eyes. The game had changed. It was no longer just about winning a case.
It was a war. And they had just made it personal.
As the door shut behind Sunoo, the quiet pressed in. The professional mask, the unwavering determination he had worn like armor in the visitation room and all the way home, shattered.
Both legs gave out, and he slid down the back of the door, landing hard on the floor in the entryway. The tears came then, not the gentle kind, but great, heaving sobs that wracked his entire body. He brought his knees to his chest, burying his face in his arms, trying to muffle the raw, agonizing sounds tearing from his throat.
‘My fault. It’s my fault. They hurt him because of me.’
The image of Sunghoon’s bruised face, the fear in his eyes, played on a torturous loop behind his eyelids. Every sob was a punch of guilt. He had been so arrogant, so sure that his intellect and determination could shield them. He’d taunted Mr. Choi. He’d filed the motions. He’d been clever.
And Sunghoon had paid the price for his cleverness.
‘I wanted to be his hero. Instead, I got him beaten.’ The thought was a fresh wave of agony. He cried for the boy he’d admired, whose light had been systematically extinguished. He cried for the man he’d become, who looked at him with fear instead of recognition. He cried from the sheer, helpless rage of a system so corrupt, a family so vile, that they could reach inside a prison and inflict pain to send a message.
He cried until his throat was raw and his eyes burned. He cried until there were no tears left, until he was just hollowed out, sitting in the darkening silence of his apartment, shivering with spent emotion.
“Why won’t you stop?” Sunghoon’s broken whisper echoed in the emptiness.
And the answer, which had been a quiet, constant hum in his soul for years, now roared to the surface, pulling him back from the edge of despair.
‘Because I love you.’
It was that simple. That complicated. That absolute.
He loved him. And love wasn’t just a feeling; it was a verb. It was fighting, even when it was hard. Especially when it was hard.
Sniffling, he wiped his face roughly with his sleeves. The crying was over. It had been necessary, a pressure valve releasing. But it was done.
He pushed himself up from the floor, his body feeling heavy but his mind becoming terrifyingly clear. They thought violence would silence him? They were wrong. It had just shown him their true, desperate colors. They were monsters.
And he would be the one to slay them.
He walked to his desk, switching on the lamp. The light illuminated the files, the notes, the map of the case. He picked up that very pen, holding it tightly in his hand, a tangible reminder of why he started this.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse but steady. “Okay. You want to play it this way?”
He opened the file on the stepbrother, Park Jay. If they were using underhanded tactics, so could he. He began to dig deeper, beyond the court records. Social media archives from years ago, old news articles about the family business, financial records that were public domain. He was looking for anything that could paint a picture of a motive stronger than the one they’d invented for Sunghoon.
The tear stains were still on his cheeks, but his eyes were dry and focused. The emotional breakdown had forged his resolve into something colder, sharper, and more relentless.
They had hurt the person he loved most in this world. And now, Kim Sunoo would ensure they paid for every ounce of that pain.
To be continued...