𝐏 𝐎 𝐕
⚖ | 𝐘𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧

The court was oppressively quiet, save for the dull scrape of a chair shifting and the steady rhythm of someone's anxious breath. I stood behind the prosecutor's desk, one palm resting on the thick case file I had memorized page by page. The weight of it wasn't just legal. It was personal. Every photograph, every statement, every forensic report felt like a pulse under my fingertips. A nineteen-year-old girl had trusted me with her truth, and I would not let that trust go unanswered.

"Your Honor," I began, voice steady, sharp, "we are not here to weigh the reputation of a family against the trauma of a girl. We are here to confront an act of violence one committed in silence, masked by money, and buried beneath privilege."

Across the room, Kang Minjae sat behind the defense desk with his lawyer, exuding the same careless arrogance he had the day I filed charges. He didn't even look at me. He was used to rooms where no woman raised her voice at him and even fewer dared to take him to court.

"The victim, Yoon Dasom," I continued, turning slowly toward the jury, "was drugged. The toxicology confirmed traces of zolpidem and alcohol. She regained consciousness in a hospital hallway, bleeding, disoriented, and with no memory of what happened after her second drink the one handed to her by the defendant."

The defense team attempted to object, but the judge overruled. I didn't pause.

"There was no consent. There was no misunderstanding. There was only power, and the way it was used to take something she could never give freely in that state. The surveillance footage places them together, leaving the club at 2:12 a.m. The forensic evidence aligns with her report. The bruising, the internal tearing, the blood alcohol level, it all tells the same story."

My voice didn't shake. It never did. But inside, I burned. "The law does not ask us to consider who his father is. It does not require us to weigh his potential or his education. It asks us one thing to look at the facts and decide what is just. And justice, Your Honor, is not negotiable."

By the time I returned to my seat, the silence had changed. It wasn't empty anymore. It was listening. The verdict came quicker than I expected. Guilty — on all counts. Minjae's mother cried. His father glared at me as if I'd spit on his empire. The judge ordered custody to begin immediately. The girl's parents sitting behind me the whole time didn't cry. They just clutched their daughter's hand. Relief, quiet and trembling, radiated through their row like sunlight cutting through storm clouds and I have won again. Outside the courthouse, the chaos met me like clockwork. Cameras flashed, voices shouted over each other, microphones reached past security. I put on my sunglasses with the same casual grace I'd learned from watching politicians I didn't respect.

"Prosecutor Seo, a statement on the verdict?"

"Do you believe this ruling will inspire similar survivors to come forward?"

"Were you pressured by the Kang family to drop the case?"

I didn't stop walking. "The court has spoken. That is my only comment." I felt Yunho catch up beside me my closest colleague, one of the few people who didn't tiptoe around me when I was like this.

"You made three reporters tear up," he said low under his breath. "Either you're getting softer or scarier."

"I'm not here to perform," I muttered, brushing off another mic aimed at my chin.

"You were offered a deal, weren't you?" he asked. "Minjae's father?"

I nodded once. "Five billion won to a women's shelter if I withdrew charges."

Yunho scoffed. "Did you counter?"

I glanced at him. "I told him his son could spend the next twelve years volunteering there. Supervised."

He chuckled, eyes glinting. "You're such a menace. I respect it."

By the time we reached the entrance of the Seoul District Prosecutors' Office, I had officially switched gears. The sunglasses came off, my expression softened just enough to not terrify the intern manning the front desk, and Yunho pressed the elevator button like he had somewhere more important to be than fourth-floor chaos which was a lie. As soon as we stepped out onto our floor, I was hit with the familiar scent of burnt coffee, cheap cologne, and frustration.

"Morning, Iron Lady!" Jisoo, one of the colleagues called out from behind a stack of files that looked one collapse away from a workplace injury claim.

"It's almost 1 p.m.," I said, deadpan.

"And yet I've been here since 8, pretending to work the entire time."

"You're consistent. I'll give you that."

Jisoo grinned, brushing her floppy hair back with a pencil stuck behind her ear. "Someone has to balance out your productivity."

Yunho dropped into his seat with a groan, cracking his neck. "You think she's productive? She threatened a billionaire in court today and made it look like a TED Talk."

"I'd pay to see that," muttered Eunbyeol, walking in with her hands full of snacks she clearly didn't intend to share.

"You were supposed to be in court with me," I pointed out, narrowing my eyes at her.

"I was busy" she began.

"Busy ignoring my messages?"

"No! I was busy"

"Spamming the office group chat with memes doesn't count as a valid excuse," I said, already pulling off my coat.

She plopped down into her chair, pouting. "I provide emotional support to this office."

"You provide high blood pressure," I muttered.

Sangwoo strolled in next, tie undone, sipping iced Americano like he'd just returned from a K-drama audition. "Did I miss anything important?"

"A high-profile conviction,"  Yunho said. "And Yerin telling off a chaebol heir's father."

"Again?" Sangwoo raised a brow. "It's only Tuesday."

"Some people go to therapy," I replied, placing my files on the desk. "I cross-examine people who deserve prison."

The office burst into its usual scattered rhythm phones ringing, printers stalling, half-finished coffee cups cluttering every surface. It was dysfunctional, noisy, occasionally inappropriate, and somehow still the most competent group of legal professionals I had ever worked with.

This is my life filled with cases, chaos, and a band of morally grey lunatics I now call my family. Jisoo, a hot mess of energy and sarcasm, had a talent for juggling both legal jargon and terrible decisions. She had this habit of quoting obscure movies mid-trial prep and somehow still being one of our top researchers. Her drawer was full of highlighters and snacks — both stolen, probably from Jiho.

Then there is Yunho, the only man who could cross-examine a hostile witness and then get caught crying over a dog video ten minutes later. He was sharp, strategic, and had the patience to keep me from murdering the interns. Barely.

Eunbyeol, our in-house chaos gremlin, was the reason we all checked the fire alarms twice. She was brilliant, especially with juvenile cases, but preferred snack runs and conspiracy theories to paperwork. Most of her case notes had doodles in the margins but somehow it worked for her.

Sangwoo was... Sangwoo. Tall, tired, and always thirty seconds late with a coffee in hand and a sarcastic comment ready. He once handled an entire corporate fraud case while nursing a breakup and a sprained wrist. We still don't know how.

Messy, dysfunctional, hilariously unprofessional when unsupervised and the only people I trusted to watch my back. Of course, trust didn't mean I let them off the hook.

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