criminal love; jungwon

32

The courtroom was silent, an oppressive stillness that pressed down on Nanhee from all sides. The room felt cold, suffocating, despite the crowd that filled the wooden benches. The judge sat high above, his expression a mix of stern authority and weary detachment. The prosecutor was already in position, flipping through his notes, eyes flickering toward Nanhee every few seconds.

Nanhee stood in the center, isolated, vulnerable. Her hands trembled slightly as they rested on the wooden table before her. She felt the weight of a thousand eyes on her, yet she was utterly alone.

The door creaked open, and a hush fell over the room. The guards escorted her in, shackles around her wrists clinking with each step. Her head remained bowed, hair obscuring her face. The murmurs from the crowd swelled, a chorus of shock and disbelief.

This was the girl accused of murder.

Nanhee lifted her gaze slowly, eyes scanning the room. But she wasn’t looking at the spectators. She was searching for someone.

Jungwon.

But he wasn’t there. He never was.

Her heart ached, a dull throb in her chest. The boy who had promised to protect her, who had been by her side through everything—he was gone.

Or had he ever existed at all?

The trial began, the prosecutor wasting no time.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we are here today to determine the guilt of Cha Nanhee,” he announced, pacing in front of the jury box. “A girl who stands accused of not one, but multiple murders: Chahyeon, Minji, and her friends.”

Nanhee flinched at the mention of their names. Images flashed in her mind—Chahyeon’s pleading eyes, Minji’s fearful face. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing them away.

“You will hear testimony, see evidence, and by the end of this trial, you will understand the truth: that Cha Nanhee acted alone. That this wasn’t a case of self-defense or misunderstanding, but a calculated series of acts to maintain control over a reality she fabricated for herself.”

The prosecutor’s words echoed in Nanhee’s head, each one a hammer striking a nail into the coffin of her sanity.

The first witness was called: a forensic psychologist.

“Dr. Kim,” the prosecutor began, “can you explain your findings regarding the defendant’s mental state?”

Dr. Kim adjusted his glasses, looking solemn. “Cha Nanhee exhibits signs of severe dissociation and delusional behavior. She created an alternate reality where she was not alone, where she had support and companionship.”

“And who was this companion?”

“A boy named Jungwon,” Dr. Kim replied. “In her mind, he was her protector, her confidant. But in reality, Jungwon doesn’t exist.”

A gasp rippled through the courtroom. Nanhee’s fists clenched, her knuckles turning white.

“That’s not true,” she whispered, shaking her head. “He’s real. He was there.”

But no one heard her.

The prosecutor pressed on. “And what about the murders? What was her motive?”

Dr. Kim hesitated. “Nanhee believed these individuals threatened her reality. Chahyeon, in particular, was trying to help her, to bring her back to reality. But she perceived him as a threat.”

Tears welled in Nanhee’s eyes. She remembered Chahyeon’s face that night, the way he had reached out to her, pleading.

“I didn’t want to hurt him,” she whispered. “I didn’t…”

The evidence was damning.

Photos of the crime scenes, bloodstained notes, and recordings of her incoherent ramblings were presented. Each piece chipped away at the fragile wall Nanhee had built around herself.

Her defense attorney tried to argue for leniency, citing her mental state. But the jury’s eyes were hard, unforgiving. They saw only a killer.

Nanhee’s mind spiraled, memories blending with hallucinations. She saw Jungwon, standing in the corner, smiling at her.

“It’s okay, Nanhee,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

But when she blinked, he was gone.

The final nail in the coffin came when the prosecutor revealed the truth about Nanhee’s past.

“She was a runaway,” he declared, holding up a file. “Her parents reported her missing two years ago. She’s been living under an assumed identity, hiding from a world she couldn’t face.”

Nanhee’s head drooped, shame washing over her.

“Why did you run away, Nanhee?” the prosecutor demanded. “What were you running from?”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “I just… I wanted to be free. To escape.”

“Escape what?”

“Everything.”

The judge’s gavel struck the sound block, silencing the courtroom.

“Cha Nanhee,” he intoned, “you have been found guilty of all charges. You will be remanded to a psychiatric facility for evaluation and treatment.”

Nanhee felt the world tilt, her knees buckling. The guards caught her, holding her up as the verdict sank in.

There was no Jungwon.

No Seojun.

No mother waiting at home.

It had all been a lie. A beautiful, fragile lie that had shattered into a million pieces.

As they led her away, Nanhee looked back one last time, searching the crowd. She thought she saw him—Jungwon, standing there, smiling softly.

But it was just a figment of her imagination.

And she was still not ready to let him go, she couldn't do it just now. She wanted him to be with her till she was finally happy. But right now happiness was far away from her.