The man rose from his seat and walked toward the witness box. His stride carried a disturbing mix of confidence and mystery. When his eyes met hers, a fleeting smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, burning her with silent mockery.

He sat down in the same chair Freya had occupied earlier, and the clerk repeated the oath-taking ritual. With casual arrogance, he introduced himself to the court, speaking his name, address, and position in a voice that betrayed not a flicker of hesitation.

“Mr. Robin Decuz, how do you know the offender, and what observations do you have about her?” the public prosecutor asked, his tone clipped and professional.

Olivia, seated in the defendant’s box, had already abandoned every shred of hope.

“Ms. Hart is my employee. She has been with my department for seven years—a diligent worker, dependable in every way. But recently…” He paused deliberately, letting his words drip with venom. “Recently, she has neglected her responsibilities. Her behavior has become erratic—borrowing money from colleagues, quarreling over trivial matters, even threatening to kill those around her.”

Each word was an artful lie, spoken with precision and cruelty. Every now and then, he cast her sidelong glances, his smirk widening, as though savoring her slow undoing.

“Eventually, it became clear,” he continued, tone dropping into solemn authority, “that her reckless transformation stemmed from drug addiction. The company suffered great losses because of her. We had no choice but to dismiss her.”

He stopped, satisfied with the poisonous testimony he had fed the court. Olivia did not flinch; she had expected nothing less from him. What shocked her, however, was the indifference of her own lawyer, who lounged silently in his seat, as if the destruction of her life were a trivial performance staged for his amusement.

The prosecutor dismissed Decuz and called three more witnesses. Her colleagues. She did not waste her energy listening to their rehearsed lies. She already knew the story they would echo—a broken record painting her as a drug addict, unstable and dangerous. The words blurred into background noise.

Only the final witness made her stir.

He was a man she had never seen before—a drug dealer named Mark. Yet, he looked at her as if he knew her. His identification was sharp, unwavering, as though their lives had been tangled once upon a time. She spotted a tattoo on his hand, one she recognized but could not place. Where had she seen it before?

“My Lord,” the prosecutor said gravely, dismissing Mark after his damning testimony. He picked up a file and a box, carefully handing both over to the court lawyer. “Here are the autopsy reports, the forensic findings from the victims’ bodies, and the weapon of murder. Clear, undeniable evidence of the offender’s crimes.”

The judge examined the papers, his heavy expression shifting between sorrow and fury. Each flick of his eyes across the pages seemed to deepen his disdain. At one point, he looked at Olivia directly, his glare searing into her like a brand. A murderer. A monster.

And then—finally—her lawyer rose.

“I apologize, My Lord, but as the defense counsel for my client, I must announce to the court—”

Olivia’s heart clenched.

“My client, Ms. Olivia Hart, confesses to her crimes. She seeks forgiveness. She pleads guilty, humbly placing herself at the mercy of this court.”

The words struck her like a thunderclap. Though calm and poised, his voice butchered her soul.

“She committed these tragic acts under the influence of narcotics. Medical reports confirm her fragile mental state. She does not need death—she requires treatment. I respectfully request that my client be sent to rehabilitation, where she can recover from her illness.”

With deliberate ceremony, he handed over documents—confessions she realized too late were the very papers she had signed in the waiting room. Her own hand, trapped in lines of ink, delivered her to ruin.

“Objection!” The prosecutor erupted, his voice heavy with rage. He stormed before the bench, his finger almost shaking as he pointed toward her. “My Lord, a wife who murders her husband, a mother who slaughters her daughter—such a woman deserves no mercy! Granting forgiveness only tarnishes justice. At the very least, she should rot in prison for the rest of her life. But in truth, she deserves death!”

Silence curved around the court like the edge of a blade.

Then, her lawyer—Mr. William—cut through it. His voice was smoother, quieter, yet carried an unshakable weight.

“My Lord, we must not ignore the corrosive role of drugs, nor the fragile state of the offender’s mind. A sick soul should be treated, rehabilitated, and then punished. That is her human right, one this court cannot deny.”

His words stirred the chamber, sowing hesitation in those who had come eager for blood. Even the judge faltered, caught in the net of William’s conviction.

“Objection overruled.” The judge’s voice cracked like thunder, dismissing the prosecutor’s plea.

Thanking the court with a solemn nod, William sat. Tension hissed through the silence, until at last the judge called the lawyers and the Mayor of the city into his private chamber.

One hour passed. For Olivia, it felt like an eternity. Each second clawed against her skin, whispering visions of punishment, of prison walls, of death itself. Her body felt both heavy and weightless, drowning in the unknown.

When the men returned, the prosecutor’s face sagged with disappointment. In contrast, William’s lips bore the faintest smile.

The judge’s voice broke the silence:

“After careful review of evidence, testimony, and forensic reports, the court has decided. The perpetrator will face life imprisonment. However, recognizing her compromised mental state, drug addiction, confession, and cooperation—the jury and this court believe she should first undergo rehabilitation. She is to be admitted to a renowned facility: M.C. Hospitals and Medical Help, a charitable institution. There she will remain until proven recovered. Afterward, she will serve the remainder of her life sentence in prison. The justice is served. Court is dismissed.”

The hammer fell. The sound drilled into her ears, final and devastating.

But Olivia’s fear did not come from prison, or even death.

No. Her blood froze because she knew that asylum.

M.C. Hospitals and Medical Help.

M.C. — Marcus Campbell.

And suddenly, the fog lifted from her fractured thoughts. Reality struck her like a bucket of cold water.

The asylum was not salvation. It was the beginning of a darker end.