I woke up to a stinging cold crawling through my limbs, and faint voices whispering in my ears like distant echoes.
I slowly opened my eyes, the bright light of a white ceiling above me briefly disoriented me.
The smell of disinfectants… the beeping of medical equipment…
I'm in a hospital.
I tried to sit up, but my body was heavy as stone.
My legs… they wouldn't move.
Then I remembered the stab—
That savage pain that tore through me.
I let out a bitter breath and muttered hoarsely:
"Damn…"
The word had barely escaped my lips when a soft knock came at the door, followed by a tall man entering the room.
He wore a white coat that shimmered under the light, and glasses that reflected a calm face.
He approached with confident steps, smiled warmly, and said in a gentle voice:
"You're finally awake… thank God."
He continued as he checked a small file in his hand:
"You've been in a coma for a whole week. Your family was very worried. We feared you'd never wake up."
Then he looked up at me, his eyes locking with mine, serious and tinged with scolding:
"Why do you throw yourself into street fights? Don't you realize you lose something every time you enter a battle like that?"
His words lit a spark of anger inside me; his voice sounded like he was blaming me, as if I were some lunatic bent on destroying myself.
I replied sharply:
"I had a reason… maybe a principle… or maybe…"
I stuttered.
Suddenly, all I felt was a terrifying kind of confusion.
Did I fight to defend something? Or was it blind rage? Shock?
The sound of my heartbeat echoed in my head like war drums, drowning my thoughts.
The doctor noticed my turmoil. He sighed, sat on a chair beside my bed, and spoke in a low, deep voice:
"If you choose to fight for your principles, you must be ready to pay the price many times. Principles, my boy… they're like candles—they melt to light your way, but in the end, they leave you in a new kind of darkness. And what you believe is right today… may become a burden tomorrow."
He spoke with a sad tone and a mysterious smile I couldn't quite decipher.
Was it pity? Sorrow? Or something else hidden in his eyes?
I didn't want to keep talking. I just smiled faintly and said quietly:
"It was something worth protecting… even if I didn't really know what it was."
The doctor left after recommending rest, and silence filled the room again.
I turned my eyes toward the open window. A gentle breeze touched my face, and the sky outside was blue and clear—like a perfect painting.
I whispered sarcastically:
"How ironic… a perfect day to go outside, and I'm stuck in a bed, unable to move my legs."
As I lost myself in that calm, the door suddenly burst open—
Without knocking.
Two large men entered the room, wearing military-green uniforms and dark-colored caps.
Their eyes carried a metallic coldness, devoid of any sympathy.
I froze in place from the shock.
Military police?
Why the military for a street fight? Isn't this something for civil police?
A chill ran down my spine despite the pain.
"Shit…"
One of them stepped toward me with a blank face, his voice sharp like a blade:
"Follow us quietly… Your trial is today."
With each word, I could see the handcuffs gleaming in his hands before he locked them around my wrists.
The other officer pushed a wheelchair next to me and helped me sit on it—deliberately rough.
At that very moment, the doctor rushed in, trying to stop them:
"You can't take him! He's not stable, physically or mentally. You need an official permit from the health authorities!"
But the soldier pulled out a paper stamped with a dark red seal and waved it in the doctor's face:
"We have a direct order from the military court."
A storm of mixed emotions raged inside me—anger, shock, frustration…
But I simply offered a cold smile filled with bitterness and whispered:
"Ah… this is my country. No one to blame… but myself."
I looked into the doctor's frozen face.
His eyes said everything: he now understood I was nothing more than a piece in a game far bigger than me.
They wheeled me out quietly.
I could feel the stares of the nurses and everyone we passed in the hospital halls—stares filled with pity, disgust, and fear.
But I didn't care.
I knew exactly what I did.
I didn't regret it.
Only one thing kept eating at me—rage.
Because they refused to tell me where the trial would be held.
Even when I asked to contact someone, they ignored me like I was just a ghost dragged toward the unknown.
As we exited the hospital, a third officer was waiting outside beside an armored vehicle built for transporting prisoners.
The vehicle was a massive metal box with sealed doors and a small grated window barely letting light through.
Just looking at it was enough to fill anyone with dread—it wasn't a vehicle for suspects or patients…
It was a trap for criminals.
The officer stood next to it like a guard dog, ready to prevent any escape—even though I could barely stand.
I chuckled bitterly at the whole scene.
No one even reacted to my laughter.
They placed me in the back seat.
The third officer lingered for a few moments, then leaned close enough that I could feel his breath on my ear and whispered:
"The trial is on Beast Hill. The evidence is with your family."
He then slipped a small paper into my hand. It read:
"The evidence will be protected."
I stared at him in surprise.
In his eyes, a faint smile told me: "We won."
Though I'd never seen him before, I felt deep gratitude for him.
I sat quietly inside the vehicle, clutching the paper tightly.
For the first time in what felt like forever, a confident smile crept across my face.
"Never thought luck would smile at me… not even once."
We finally reached the courthouse.
The building loomed on top of the hill like a silent monster—massive, dark gray, watching us with unblinking eyes.
I was the last to enter the courtroom, shackled and not even allowed to meet a lawyer or prepare a defense.
The atmosphere was suffocating.
Unfamiliar faces stared at me coldly, as if I were a nightmare that had come to life.
I searched the crowd for any familiar face…
But my family wasn't there.
I raised my head with a sad smile and whispered to myself:
"Maybe that's for the best… I don't want them to see this pathetic scene."
The judge began reading the charges in a calm yet unwavering tone, each word landing like a gavel strike:
"The defendant, Hakim, is hereby charged with the assault of one Elias, having allegedly stabbed him with a knife.
According to the prosecution, the incident unfolded during a confrontation in which Elias attempted to intervene in a prior dispute involving the defendant.
It is reported that, following the stabbing, the defendant was struck on the head by Elias's younger brother, who sought to protect his sibling. In retaliation, the defendant proceeded to attempt to break the child's legs.
Elias then intervened once again to defend his younger brother and stabbed the defendant, resulting in both individuals collapsing.
The prosecution asserts that the defendant initiated the violence and bears full responsibility for the escalation of the incident to a life-threatening degree."
My eyebrows shot up in shock.
What are these accusations?!
Where did these so-called witnesses come from?
It felt like they had been created just to testify against me—part of a carefully crafted legal play.
Everything looked like it was prepared in advance to trap me.
I was guilty before I even entered.
A victim with no defense.
Even my lawyer, who was supposed to be my only lifeline, sat across from me with a blank face—as if he were part of the setup.
In a cold voice, he repeated:
"You have no evidence to support your version of events."
I felt the ground beneath me pulling me into darkness.
Words failed.
Helplessness seeped into my veins like cold poison.
My eyes couldn't stop moving between Elias—acting the crying victim, hiding a wicked smile behind his hands—and the judge, who looked ready to deliver the final verdict.
What choice do I have... when every move has failed, and every card has been burned?
Only one remains—me. I am my final move.