The courtroom was too quiet.
Every eye was fixed on her as Hana stood beside Mr. Choi, teddy clutched to her chest. The judge adjusted his glasses, his tone skeptical.
"The child wishes to testify?"
Mr. Choi bowed slightly. "Yes, Your Honor. Though Hana cannot speak, she has information crucial to this case. She will communicate through writing and drawings."
The prosecutor scoffed. "With all due respect, Judge, this is absurd. A mute child relying on sketches? How reliable can that be? Anyone could have planted those ideas in her head."
Hana's fingers dug into her teddy's fur. Heat burned behind her eyes.
She hadn't been told what to say. She hadn't been coached. She had seen the man. She knew.
The judge tapped his gavel once. "Proceed. But be aware—the jury must judge credibility."
Hana climbed into the witness chair. The wood felt cold beneath her. Mr. Choi placed a stack of paper and a pencil in front of her.
Her hand trembled as she began to draw. The scarred man's face. His sharp jaw. His restless eyes. And always, the missing button.
Gasps spread through the courtroom as she held up the sketch.
The prosecutor sneered. "A child's drawing? That proves nothing." He leaned forward. "Tell us, Hana—how do we know you didn't invent this? Children imagine monsters under the bed all the time."
Hana's lips pressed together. Her chest burned. She grabbed another sheet and drew quickly: the cigarette. Then the teddy bear, with its bloodstain. Then the cigarette butt she had hidden inside it.
The prosecutor faltered for a moment, but quickly recovered. "Coincidence. Or worse—coaching." He turned to the jury. "This child loves her father. Of course she'd invent another suspect to protect him."
Hana shook her head violently, tears stinging her eyes. She scribbled again, faster this time. The alley behind the store. The storm. The man's looming shadow.
Page after page, she covered the desk with drawings. Each one a memory burned into her mind.
Her hands flew, desperate, frantic. She sketched until her pencil snapped.
Silence filled the courtroom.
Even the judge leaned forward, studying the flood of images.
And then—Hana lifted her teddy. She pointed to the faint bloodstain on its fur, holding it high for everyone to see.
Her message was clear. This is real. I was there. I know what I saw.
The gallery erupted with murmurs.
The judge banged his gavel. "Order! Order in the court!"
But Hana didn't look at them. Her eyes locked on her father.
He was crying, his shoulders shaking. "That's my Hana," he whispered. "She's so brave."
Mr. Choi placed a steady hand on Hana's shoulder. "You've done enough. More than enough."
The session recessed in chaos. Outside, reporters swarmed, cameras flashing, microphones thrust in every direction.
"Is the girl credible?"
"Will her drawings sway the jury?"
"Who is the man with the scar?"
Hana stayed close to Mrs. Park, hiding her face against the teddy. But even in the noise, she felt it.
That stare.
She lifted her eyes just once.
And there he was.
The scarred man, watching from across the street, cigarette glowing red in the dusk. His expression was different this time—not mocking, not amused.
Cold. Dangerous.
His lips moved silently, shaping words she could read even from a distance.
Stay quiet… or else.
A chill ran through her.
The court might not believe her yet. But he did.
And that made her his target.