Chapter Text
“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Kotadoski,” the dean said, voice heavy with disappointment. “But your daughter… she’s shown no effort to change. I’m afraid we have no choice but to expel her. We can’t have someone as violent and dangerous as her on campus. You saw the reports she nearly killed those girls. Two are in the hospital. The third escaped with minor injuries. The police were already notified, and she’s been arrested.”
Her parents exchanged a long, wordless glance before bowing their heads.
“We deeply apologize for our daughter’s actions,” her father apologized bowing his head.
At the police station, Mira was led down a narrow hall, handcuffed and silent. The officers guided her into a small booth where someone was waiting. She froze when she saw him.
“You just had to screw things up,” her brother snapped, anger burning in his voice.
Mira leaned back in her chair, unfazed. “Aw, what’s wrong? You scared?”
“You think this is okay? Mom and Dad are furious. They’re talking about disowning you.”
“Let them,” she said flatly. “Since when did they care what happens to me?”
“You’re insane.”
“Oh, I’m insane? You must be delusional. They really have you brainwashed.” Her tone sharpened, bitterness cutting through. “But let me guess your poor adopted sister doesn’t mean shit to you. Did it ever cross your mind that maybe I was abused, neglected, treated like trash? Or are we just pretending that never happened?”
He glared, unmoved. “No wonder they didn’t want to come see you. Talking to you just proves what you are a freak. A monster. A demon.”
There it was. The word she’d heard her entire life.
“Fuck you,” Mira hissed, jaw tightening.
“I hope they kick you out into the streets.” He slammed the phone down and stormed off.
Mira stared after him, her expression still and cold. “Proved my point,” she muttered, though her chest ached beneath the calm.
The officers came to escort her back to her cell. She climbed onto the lower bunk, pressing herself into the corner, knees tucked to her chest. Her breathing slowed, but her mind wouldn’t stop replaying it all, the fight, the screams, the blood.
She could have walked away. She could have ignored them. She could have left the bathroom.
But then she remembered their voices.
“I can’t believe we have a pink-haired homo on campus.”
“I mean, look at her, total scissor queen. No wonder her family doesn’t want her.”
“Rumor is, she’s demon-born. Look at that freakish pink hair.”
“Maybe her parents killed themselves for giving birth to a demon spawn.”
They didn’t know she was in the stall, sitting there with her head bowed, doing her best to disappear.
Then something snapped.
The door swung open.
The laughter stopped.
The mirror shattered.
Two girls were on the floor, blood everywhere, Mira’s hands trembling and soaked red as she stared at them. The third ran, screaming.
Then multiple hands grabbing her, voices shouting, sirens blaring.
Now she was here. Alone.
A cell her only refuge.
A demon, just like they always said.
__________________________________________
The law office buzzed with whispers sharp, judgmental, and venomous.
“Did you see the footage?”
“She almost killed them.”
“They said she laughed afterward.”
Bobby stood by the coffee machine, half-listening as his colleagues picked apart the story like vultures over a carcass. He wasn’t the sharpest suit in the firm his tie was crooked more often than not, and his hair always looked like he’d just jogged through a wind tunnel but he had a heart that refused to look away when others did.
When his senior partner dropped a thick file onto the conference table, the chatter died.
“Case 4827,” she said. “Mira Kotadoski. College assault. Three victims. Don’t bother reading too deep; she’s a monster.”
Bobby frowned, flipping open the folder. Inside were photos blood, glass, a terrified girl with pink hair, eyes wide and empty.
“Monster, huh?” he murmured, voice soft.
The partner scoffed. “You’re not seriously thinking about it, are you? Every attorney who’s touched this file dropped it within an hour. She’s radioactive. Don’t waste your time.”
But Bobby’s brow furrowed as he scanned the reports, the inconsistencies, the witness statements that didn’t quite line up. Then he saw it the bullying reports, ignored by staff. The remarks about her hair, her orientation, her “demon” nickname. He sat back, exhaling.
“Maybe she’s not a monster,” he said. “Maybe she’s just human.”
A few laughs circled the room. “Sure, go play hero, Bobby. Save the pink-haired demon.”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he quietly gathered the papers, sliding them into a folder.
Later that night, the office was empty except for the glow of Bobby’s desk lamp. He watched the rain hit the window, tapping his pen against the table.
He’d been called naïve before too soft, too trusting. But he’d seen people crumble under judgment, people who just needed someone to listen. And if he was wrong this time… well, at least he’d know he tried.
He reached for the phone and dialed.
“Seoul Metropolitan Detention Center, how may I direct your call?”
“This is Attorney Bobby Han,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’d like to schedule an appointment with a detainee Mira Kotadoski. Before her hearing.”
The line clicked as the officer confirmed the details. When he hung up, Bobby sat in silence for a long moment.
His reflection in the window looked tired but resolute. “Alright, Mira,” he said under his breath. “Let’s see who you really are.”
The air in the visitation room was thick stale, sterile, and far too quiet.
Bobby sat at the metal table, his briefcase beside him, papers neatly stacked in front of him like an offering to someone who didn’t want them. Across the glass wall, an officer opened the opposite door.
Mira stepped in.
Her wrists were cuffed, her pink hair dull beneath the harsh fluorescent light. She sat down without looking at him, knees drawn slightly inward, her gaze locked somewhere far away the table, the floor, maybe the memory of something that wouldn’t stop playing in her head.
Bobby swallowed and gave his best disarming smile.
“Uh… hey there. I’m Bobby Han. I’m the attorney assigned well, not assigned, I volunteered to represent you.”
No response. Not even a blink.
He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, realizing it was crooked again. “Right, so… I read your case. A lot of people said some… very unkind things. But I don’t like taking other people’s word for who someone is. I prefer to hear it from them directly.”
Her eyes flickered up for the briefest second, then back down.
He took that as progress. “You don’t have to say anything yet. I just want to understand what happened.”
Still nothing. Her face was blank, but her fingers twitched slightly a small, restless motion she probably didn’t even notice.
He leaned back, sighing softly. “You know, most clients I meet can’t stop talking. Half the time, I wish they’d take a break. You’re kind of refreshing.”
No reaction.
The silence stretched thin. Bobby rubbed the back of his neck, trying again.
“I read the police report. I also read about the girls what they said to you before everything happened.” His voice softened. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Mira’s jaw tightened. A flicker pain, anger, maybe both.
“I’m not here to make excuses for anyone,” he continued carefully. “But if you want to help me defend you, I need to know what you want. Do you even want to fight this, or are you just… done?”
Her eyes lifted, meeting his for the first time. Cold. Guarded. But there was something behind it exhaustion, maybe, or disbelief that someone was asking instead of judging.
Bobby leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’m not here to fix you, Mira. I just want to help. That’s all.”
Her hands slowly folded on the table. She didn’t nod, didn’t shake her head just stared. The officer by the door shifted, uncomfortable.
Bobby looked down, trying to hide his disappointment. “You know,” he said quietly, “people keep calling you a monster. But I don’t see one. I just see someone who’s been alone for way too long.”
Her shoulders stiffened. Then the smallest thing her eyes glistened. Not tears, not yet, just the faintest shimmer before she looked away again.
The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of visitation.
Bobby sighed, gathering his papers. “Alright. I’ll come back tomorrow. Same time.” He smiled again, more tired this time. “You don’t have to talk. I’ll do the talking until you’re ready.”
As the guard led Mira away, Bobby watched her go small, silent, swallowed by the hallway’s shadow.
He sat for a moment longer, fingers drumming on the table.
“…This is gonna take time,” he murmured to himself, standing up. “But I’ve got time.”
Bobby sat at the empty table long after Mira had been taken back to her cell. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. He gathered his things, thanked the officer, and instead of heading straight out, he lingered in the hallway near the records desk.
“Hey,” he said, leaning slightly against the counter, trying to sound casual. “About the case — Mira Kotadoski could I see the victim statements?”
The officer gave him a look, the kind that said you really want to get involved with that mess? But after a minute, they slid a folder across the counter.
He flipped it open. Three names. Three hospital reports. Cuts, bruises, concussions, glass embedded in skin. One girl had a fractured rib, another had to get stitches near her eye. The third was mostly unharmed, just “deeply traumatized.”
The officer’s voice cut through his thoughts. “They’re pushing for attempted murder, assault, and battery. If the prosecution goes through with all of it, that girl’s never seeing daylight again.”
Bobby exhaled slowly, closing the file. “Attempted murder?”
“Her fingerprints were on the glass, there was blood everywhere, and she didn’t deny it,” the officer said. “Open and shut.”
He nodded, thanked them, and finally walked out into the cold night. The sky over Seoul was dim and gray, the city lights painting everything in a quiet haze.
By the time he got home, it was past midnight. His small apartment was cluttered half-empty coffee mugs, papers, and a dying plant by the window. He dropped his briefcase on the couch, loosened his tie, and powered on his computer.
If no one else wanted to see the full story, he would.
He typed her name into the search bar. Mira Kotadoski.
The results were thin. No social media. No active profiles. Just fragments old school newsletters, archived competition results, a few pictures uploaded by someone long ago.
He clicked the first link.
A class photo from an orphanage. A small girl with light pink hair sat in the back row, hands folded in her lap. Everyone else smiled. She didn’t.
He kept scrolling. A local news article: “Local orphan adopted by international family.” A photo accompanied it Mira between two smiling adults, their arms around her shoulders. But even then, her eyes looked off, as if she didn’t belong there. He zoomed in, noticing faint bruises on her arms. Maybe from play, maybe not.
He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “Jesus…”
He found a few more pictures a spelling bee, a science fair, a school award ceremony. Each time, her expression was the same. No smile, no light in her eyes. Just… emptiness.
The deeper he went, the more it unsettled him. No record of friends. No posts, no mentions from classmates. Just scores and grades and the cold facts of achievement.
He opened her adoption file next, what little was available. Her birth parents both deceased in a car accident when she was seven. Orphanage for three years. Then adoption. Nothing about the in-between.
He stared at the last photo the one taken when she was first adopted. The parents were beaming. Mira stood between them, holding a small stuffed bear. Her arms were thin, her expression distant.
The caption read: “Our new beginning.”
Bobby frowned. “Didn’t look much like one.”
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The city hum outside his window filled the silence. He didn’t know what bothered him more — how little there was about her, or how much that silence said.
He considered calling the Kotadoskis. It would make sense get their side, maybe understand the home life Mira had. But something in his gut told him not to. Not yet. She already seemed like a girl who’d been poked, prodded, and questioned her whole life.
He didn’t want to be one more person forcing answers out of her.
Instead, he opened a new file on his computer, typed her name at the top, and under it, a single line:
“Before I defend her, I need to understand her.”
The screen glowed against the dark as Bobby stared at the words.
Mira wasn’t just a case. She was a story that no one wanted to read and he was starting to realize he might be the only one willing to.
__________________________________________
The next morning, Bobby woke up early though “woke up” might’ve been the wrong word. He hadn’t really slept. The light from his computer still glowed faintly against the cluttered desk, the file titled Mira K. open where he’d left it. Notes, fragments, question marks.
He poured himself coffee, black and bitter, and sat staring at the screen.
“Alright,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “She’s not talking, and I don’t blame her. So… I’ll let everyone else do the talking for now.”
He started listing possible leads: teachers, counselors, the basketball coach. Anything to build a picture of who Mira was before the world called her a monster.
By noon, Bobby was walking across the clean, glassy campus of Haneul Women’s College, his coat pulled tight against the wind. Students passed in small groups, their laughter sharp, echoing off the concrete. He caught a few whispers when he mentioned Mira’s name at the front desk the receptionist’s polite tone faltered, her eyes flicking up briefly before she pointed him toward the administrative wing.
“She was… a handful,” she said under her breath, trying not to sound cruel but failing.
He nodded, thanked her, and moved on.
The first person he met was Professor Kim, who had taught Mira in Literature and History. A tidy man with gray hair and a perfectly pressed shirt, he looked uneasy as Bobby introduced himself.
“You’re her attorney?” the professor asked, adjusting his glasses. “That’s… brave.”
“I prefer ‘stubborn,’” Bobby replied with a faint smile. “I’m not here to excuse what happened. I’m trying to understand who she was before it did.”
Professor Kim sighed and gestured for him to sit. “Mira was quiet. Brilliant, really. She didn’t speak much in class, but when she wrote essays…” He paused, glancing toward a drawer. “Hold on.”
He pulled out a folder and slid a paper across the desk. It was an essay, handwritten in neat, sharp lines. The title read: ‘Monsters Are Made, Not Born.’
Bobby skimmed it. Mira had written about how society labels what it fears how cruelty, when endured long enough, reshapes the victim into the very thing others claim to see. Her final line read:
“If you call someone a demon long enough, they’ll eventually stop trying to be human.”
Bobby’s throat tightened. “She wrote this before the incident?”
“Two months before,” Professor Kim said. “I showed it to the counselor. She brushed it off as a creative piece.”
Bobby folded the paper carefully and asked to make a copy. The professor agreed.
Next stop the gymnasium.
The sound of sneakers on hardwood echoed through the space. A tall woman with her hair tied back was barking orders at a group of students running drills. When the practice ended, she walked over, wiping sweat from her brow.
“Coach Park,” Bobby greeted. “I’m representing Mira Kotadoski.”
The woman’s expression hardened instantly. “I figured you might show up sooner or later.”
“You coached her?”
“Yeah,” she said, tossing her towel over her shoulder. “For about a year. Talented, fast, aggressive — but not in a bad way. She had that edge you want in a player. Then something changed.”
“What kind of change?”
The coach crossed her arms, thinking. “She started withdrawing. Quit showing up for team dinners. Stopped smiling. Started getting into arguments with the other girls, mostly because of stupid rumors. You know how kids can be cruel without even realizing it.”
“Or realizing it and not caring,” Bobby murmured.
Coach Park nodded. “She had this one girl who used to taunt her about her hair, about her parents. I reported it, but… administration didn’t do much. Mira never complained, just bottled it up. Guess it all exploded one day.”
Bobby jotted down notes. “Did she ever lash out before? Any signs of violence?”
“Never. She’d storm off, sure, but she wasn’t dangerous.”
He hesitated. “Do you think she meant to hurt them that badly?”
The coach exhaled. “I think she snapped. You push someone long enough, and they break. I saw that look in her eyes once during practice like she was somewhere else. I should’ve said something.”
Bobby didn’t answer right away. The gym felt too big, the echoes of bouncing balls and shouts lingering like ghosts.
He looked down at his notebook the essay, the notes, the word ‘demon’ underlined twice.
“Thank you, Coach,” he said quietly. “For telling me what no one else wanted to.”
She gave him a long look. “You really think you can help her?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby admitted. “But I have to try.”
As he walked back through the courtyard, students’ laughter trailed behind him again careless, sharp, and oblivious.
He slipped his hands into his pockets, glancing up at the gray afternoon sky. Somewhere out there, Mira sat in silence, probably believing no one gave a damn.
He knew that feeling too well.
By the time he reached his car, his strategy was already forming not one built on legal loopholes, but on understanding. If he could show the court the truth who Mira was before the rumors, before the cruelty maybe she’d have a chance.
And if she wouldn’t speak for herself…
Bobby decided he’d speak for her until she could.
The steady hum of the car engine filled the silence as Bobby drove down the narrow streets of Seoul, his mind still replaying the words of Mira’s coach. The day had been long, his head full of fragments bruises, essays, quiet faces, and the heavy weight of things unsaid.
The sky was deep gray, the first hints of rain starting to fall against his windshield when his phone rang through the car’s speaker. The name made him smile despite himself.
Celine Park.
An old friend. Sharp, fast-talking, and one of the best attorneys he knew.
He hit the call button. “Hey, Celine. You calling to save me from another bad day?”
Her laugh crackled through the speaker. “You? Beyond saving, Bobby.” Then her tone shifted, more curious than playful. “So… I heard a rumor you picked up the Kotadoski case.”
Bobby grinned faintly. “News travels fast. Yeah, I took it.”
“Seriously?” Celine’s voice sharpened. “You’re defending her?”
He took a turn, eyes on the road. “Someone has to. Everyone else seems to think she’s the devil.”
“Maybe that’s because she almost killed three girls.”
There was silence. The windshield wipers swiped once, slow.
“She’s not a killer,” Bobby said softly. “I don’t think she ever meant to be.”
Celine sighed through the line. “Bobby, listen. You’re a good guy. Too good sometimes. But I need to tell you something before you get in over your head.”
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I’m on the same case,” she said. “Representing the victims.”
That pulled him up short. His hand tightened on the steering wheel. “You’re what?”
“Yeah. The girls’ parents hired my firm. I was going to call you eventually, but I didn’t think you’d actually take her side.”
He exhaled slowly. “You could’ve warned me.”
“I’m warning you now.” Her voice softened slightly. “Bobby, this case isn’t just bad optics it’s career suicide. The footage, the injuries, the press. Everyone wants her punished. You defending her makes you the villain by association.”
He glanced out the window, the city lights blurring in streaks. “You sound like everyone else.”
“I sound like someone who doesn’t want to watch you burn out,” she countered. “Look, between you and me, the prosecution’s already prepping for attempted murder. They’ve got witness statements from two students who claim Mira said, ‘I’ll make them bleed.’ They’re building the ‘violent and unstable’ narrative hard. You can’t win this.”
He stayed quiet, jaw tight. The sound of rain filled the pause.
Celine’s tone softened again. “Bobby… she’s not worth throwing your career away for.”
He gave a small laugh, humorless. “That’s the thing. I don’t think anyone ever thought she was worth it.”
“Bobby—”
“Thanks for the warning, Celine,” he interrupted gently. “Really. I appreciate it.”
She hesitated. “You’re still going to go through with it, aren’t you?”
He smiled faintly to himself. “Yeah. Guess I am.”
There was a sigh on the other end. “You’ve always had a soft spot for the hopeless ones.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I just hate seeing people thrown away before anyone tries to understand them.”
A brief silence. Then she said quietly, “You’re going to get hurt doing this.”
“Maybe. But so was she.”
Celine didn’t reply after that. Just a quiet exhale before the line clicked dead.
Bobby kept driving, the rain coming down harder now. The wipers squeaked against the glass as he turned onto his street. He pulled over, the city humming faintly beyond the drizzle.
He sat there for a long time, staring at the reflection of the streetlights across his windshield.
Everyone wanted him to walk away. But all he could think about was Mira’s eyes how empty they looked, how no one had ever stopped to ask why.
He reached over, switched off the ignition, and whispered into the silence:
“She doesn’t deserve to be forgotten.”
Then, quietly, almost as if saying it made it true:
“I’m not giving up on her.”
__________________________________________
The lunchroom buzzed with voices and clattering trays a chaos of bodies, noise, and the smell of reheated food. Mira sat at the far end of the metal table, her posture tight, shoulders hunched. She didn’t touch her rice at first, just moved the spoon around absently, staring at nothing.
Bobby’s words kept looping in her head.
“You’re not what they say you are, Mira. I’ll prove it.”
He said it like he believed it like there was still something left in her worth saving.
But he didn’t see what she saw every time she closed her eyes.
The blood.
The screaming.
The faces of those girls twisted, terrified.
She pressed her lips together until they went white. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the spoon. She could hear the whispers around her. There were always whispers.
“That’s the girl who snapped.”
“Crazy kid.”
“They said she nearly killed them.”
Her appetite faded before it began. She pushed the tray away and lowered her head, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face.
She wanted to disappear.
She wanted to stop existing.
Her mind turned inward twisting cruelly.
You ruined everything.
You’re nothing but a monster.
He’s wasting his time on you.
Everyone would be better off if you’d just stayed quiet.
Her fingers curled into fists beneath the table. The noise of the cafeteria began to blur muffled under the pounding of her heartbeat.
Then the footsteps came. Slow. Heavy. Purposeful.
A group of four women older, bigger, the kind who’d already decided who ran the block stopped near her table. One of them, a broad woman with a tattooed neck, leaned on the edge of Mira’s tray.
“Well, well,” the woman sneered. “If it isn’t the famous psycho girl.”
Mira didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Her spoon clinked softly against the metal tray.
“What’s the matter?” another woman mocked. “Too good to talk to us?”
“Maybe she thinks she’s better than us,” the tattooed one said, her grin sharp. “You think you’re special, huh? Rich kid with a lawyer?”
Still nothing. Mira’s silence only made them angrier.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.” A hand shot out, gripping Mira’s chin roughly, jerking her head up. Mira’s eyes were distant detached, almost hollow. That emptiness made the woman laugh. “Look at her. Dead eyes. She’s already gone.”
Then, the words that would crack the silence open like glass:
“Bet she’d scream if I cut that pretty hair off.”
The woman reached out, her fingers tangling in Mira’s hair pulling hard enough to yank her head back.
Something inside Mira snapped.
The sound of the tray slamming into flesh echoed across the cafeteria. Food splattered, metal clattered, and chaos erupted.
Mira was on her feet, the tray dented and slick with blood. The tattooed woman stumbled back, clutching her face.
“GET HER!” one of the others yelled.
The next few seconds blurred Mira lunged, driving her shoulder into one, elbowing another in the ribs. A third grabbed her from behind, locking her in a headlock, but she thrashed and moved, drove her knee into the woman’s gut in front of her, then slammed her head backward.
Pain, shouting, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Someone’s nails tore her cheek. Another fist caught her jaw.
Then Mira screamed — not words, just pure, raw fury — as she grabbed a fistful of hair and ripped. The woman shrieked. Blood streaked Mira’s knuckles.
“STOP! DOWN! NOW!” the guards shouted.
But Mira didn’t hear them. Couldn’t. Her world was red and roaring and wild.
Batons cracked against her back once twice until her body buckled. Still, she didn’t let go of the woman’s hair until the third blow knocked her to the ground.
The women scattered, bruised and cursing, as the guards descended.
“GET HER UP!”
They dragged her across the floor, her legs limp, head lolling to the side. Blood ran down from her temple, smeared across her chin. Her breath came in sharp, broken gasps.
The hallway to solitary was cold and white. She didn’t fight anymore her body did all the shaking for her.
When they finally shoved her into the small, dark cell, the door clanged shut with a final, echoing sound that seemed to swallow everything.
She slumped against the wall, the dim light flickering. Her hands were still trembling red, bruised, shaking.
In the silence, the noise in her head returned.
You see? This is who you are.
Violent.
Broken.
Hopeless.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, trying to breathe, but the tears never came.
Only the echo of Bobby’s voice lingered faint, fading, almost unreal.
“You’re not what they say you are.”
She whispered hoarsely into the dark, voice cracking:
“Then what am I?”
The silence was heavy thicker than the air itself.
Mira sat on the cold concrete floor, her knees pulled tight against her chest, her back pressed to the wall. The small slit of light above the door flickered occasionally, humming faintly, like a dying insect.
Her breath came shallow, uneven. The pounding in her skull had finally started to fade, leaving only the echo of her own heartbeat.
She didn’t know how long she’d been in here. Minutes. Hours. It didn’t matter.
For the first time since the fight, there was no shouting. No guards barking orders. No women laughing, jeering, calling her names. No questions from Bobby she couldn’t answer.
Just silence.
And in that silence she could think.
But thinking wasn’t safe.
Because her thoughts turned cruel fast.
You did it again.
You can’t stop, can you?
You’re nothing but a problem they’ll lock away forever.
Her fingers twitched. Her skin crawled like something alive was moving beneath it. The itching started in her arms faint at first, then maddening. She rubbed at it, harder, then harder still.
“Stop,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely a whisper. “Just… stop.”
The voices didn’t. They swelled, overlapping, growing sharper all the things she told herself every day twisted into the sound of every person who’d ever given up on her.
Worthless.
Monster.
Unfixable.
Her nails dug into her forearm, a desperate attempt to ground herself, to focus on something that was real her.
Pain flashed bright.
Warmth followed.
Then the sharp sting faded into a dull hum.
When she finally looked down, her breath hitched.
Thin red lines marked her pale skin, one deeper than the rest. Drops of blood welled up slowly, tracing down her arm like ink on paper.
And suddenly everything stopped.
The voices vanished.
The static in her mind went quiet.
Even her heartbeat seemed to slow.
The silence that followed wasn’t frightening this time. It was still.
She stared at her arm at what she’d done and felt nothing but the strange, empty relief of quiet.
Her head fell back against the wall with a soft thud.
Was that what she needed all along?
Just something to make it stop?
She closed her eyes, her voice barely audible, carried only to herself.
“I just wanted it quiet.”
And in that cell alone, bleeding, and tired the silence answered her with nothing at all.
The heavy clang of the door jolted Mira from her daze. For hours, she had sat in the corner of her cell, knees drawn up, sleeve darkened with drying blood. When the light flooded in, she didn’t even flinch.
“Open it,” one of the guards muttered, his voice wary. The steel door screeched as it slid aside.
They stepped in, boots echoing against the concrete. “Mira,” the taller one said, his tone more cautious than commanding. His eyes went straight to the crimson streaks down her arm, the fresh wound she’d clawed open herself.
“Damn it… she’s bleeding,” the other guard whispered, kneeling down.
Mira didn’t look up. Her eyes were distant, fixed on nothing. The air in the solitary block was cold, but her skin felt hot, prickling under the band of pain that wrapped her arm.
“Get her up. Medical bay now.”
They were gentle more careful than she expected—as they lifted her. Her body was limp but compliant, and the soft rustle of their gloves against her skin felt foreign. The corridor outside hummed with the faint hum of lights and the distant murmur of other prisoners, muffled through walls.
One of the guards muttered into his radio, “Subject Mira self inflicted wound. Moving to medical.”
As they guided her down the hall, a strange calm washed over her, almost peaceful. The chaos in her head dulled into silence, her thoughts replaced by the rhythmic sound of their boots.
At the infirmary doors, a nurse looked up sharply. “What happened?”
“She hurt herself,” the taller guard said, his voice low but tinged with concern. “We found her like this in solitary.”
The nurse nodded, motioning for them to bring her in. Mira’s eyes flickered briefly, catching the sterile white of the room before the world blurred again.
“Easy now,” the nurse murmured, cleaning the wound as Mira stared blankly at the ceiling. The antiseptic burned, but she didn’t react. Not a word, not a sound.
Only when the nurse’s voice softened “You’re safe here for now”—did Mira’s lip tremble ever so slightly. But she didn’t cry. She just blinked, once, as if trying to convince herself that safety was real.
But it wasn’t.
The sting of antiseptic cut through the air, sharp and clean, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood. Mira sat on the edge of the infirmary cot, her body still and her breathing shallow. The light above her buzzed faintly, flickering once before steadying.
The nurse worked quietly, dabbing at the wound along Mira’s arm a mess of broken skin and dried blood from both the cafeteria fight and what she had done to herself afterward. Each touch made Mira flinch, not from fear, but from a strange kind of comfort. It hurt, yes, but the pain grounded her, made her feel something that wasn’t the constant noise in her head.
She watched the nurse’s hands move, precise and careful, wrapping gauze over her arm. The white bandages were already spotted pink where blood had soaked through. Mira’s eyes followed the pattern of red spreading across the fabric, almost hypnotized by it. The color was proof, proof that she could still bleed, still feel, still pay for what she’d done.
Her thoughts turned in circles, dragging her deeper. You started it. You deserved it. The words crawled through her mind, harsh and familiar. The memory of the cafeteria the shouting, the shove, the sharp taste of copper in her mouth flashed in fragments. She saw the look in their eyes when she hit back. Disgust. Fear. Satisfaction, maybe. Then silence.
“You’re lucky that didn’t go deeper,” the nurse said softly, breaking the quiet. Her voice was calm, almost maternal. “You’ll have a scar, but it’ll heal.”
Heal. The word tasted wrong in Mira’s head. Healing felt undeserved. She looked away, staring at the small table beside the bed the tray of medical tools, a cup of water, a folded towel. Her arm throbbed beneath the fresh bandage, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. She found herself leaning into the ache. It was easier than feeling shame.
The nurse didn’t push her to speak, though she glanced up now and then, her expression thoughtful. When she brushed Mira’s hair back from her face, Mira tensed for a moment before letting it happen. The touch was gentle, too gentle, and it made her chest ache in a way the pain couldn’t numb.
“You’re safe here,” the nurse murmured, finishing the bandage and taping it down. “But you have to stop hurting yourself, alright? You don’t deserve that.”
Mira’s fingers twitched. Her voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper. “You don’t know that.”
The nurse paused, her eyes searching Mira’s face. “Maybe I don’t,” she said softly. “But I know you don’t need to bleed to be seen.”
The silence after that felt heavier than before. Mira lowered her gaze, staring at the white of the bandage, now sealed and clean. It looked wrong to her—too pure, too undeserved. She wanted to peel it away, to see the red again, to feel the sting that reminded her she was still paying for everything she’d done wrong.
Instead, she sat still, hands trembling faintly in her lap. The nurse placed a light blanket over her shoulders before stepping away to clean up. The warmth of it made Mira’s throat tighten.
When the door closed softly behind the nurse, Mira looked down at her arm once more. The pain was dull now, but it was there steady, reliable. She pressed her fingers against the edge of the bandage, not enough to break the skin, just enough to feel the pulse beneath it. The rhythm soothed her.
She whispered to no one, the words barely audible, “It’s what I deserve.”
Sitting there in the sterile quiet, she believed it.
The cell door slammed shut behind her with the echo of finality. The sound bounced off the concrete walls, hollow and endless. Mira sat down on the cold floor, her back pressed against the wall, the thin blanket from the infirmary still wrapped loosely around her shoulders. The sterile scent of disinfectant clung faintly to her skin, mixing with the metallic smell of the bandages.
Time had no meaning here. The light never changed. Minutes bled into hours, and hours into something longer. She stared at the floor until it blurred. Her body ached not from the wounds, but from everything else.
Her thoughts came like waves, uninvited and relentless. Every day. Every damn day. Hell.
It was never peace, never quiet. Her life had been a long stretch of noise and orders and fear disguised as discipline. Every time she thought she could breathe, something or someone took that away. Rules, expectations, punishments. Every ounce of her being had been bent into something she never chose to be.
She thought about basketball the only thing that ever made her feel free. The sound of the ball against pavement, the rush of air in her lungs, the burn in her legs as she ran. That was hers. Her game, her rhythm. No one could yell over that. It was the one place where her mind didn’t eat itself alive.
And her diary… those pages were the only place she could speak. The only place she could tell the truth about who she was and what she felt. But that too was gone. Confiscated, destroyed, like it had never mattered.
Now there was nothing left to hold onto. No freedom, no expression just these walls, this silence, and her own head turning against her.
Her parents’ voices came back, cold and sharp. The disappointment, the disgust when they found out she liked girls. A phase, her mother had said. Shameful, her father had whispered. The nights after that were silent, empty. No warmth, no dinner waiting, just the hum of the refrigerator and the smell of burnt toast she’d made herself.
She had learned to cook not because she wanted to, but because hunger didn’t care if you were unloved.
And her brother he’d been her last chance, maybe. Someone who could’ve stood up for her. But every time, his excuse was the same: We’re not really related, Mira. As if that made her less human, less worthy of family.
Her throat tightened as another memory clawed up—her adoptive father’s weight pinning her down, the smell of the dye, the glint of scissors. Her adoptive mother’s voice—It’s time to look proper, time to forget them.
She remembered the panic, the fight. Her screams echoing through the house, nails scraping, tears burning her face as she kicked and thrashed. Don’t touch it! she had cried. Her hair was the last piece of her real parents, the last thing left untouched by all the lies and control. They took everything else but not that. Not if she could help it.
After that, silence. No one spoke to her. No one cared if she came home late. No one noticed when she stopped talking. They only looked when grades came in when her achievements could be paraded around like proof that they’d done something right.
But when she grieved? When she broke? No one saw. No one wanted to.
Now, sitting in this empty cell, she realized it didn’t matter. Whether it was home or prison, the feeling was the same, alone, unseen, unwanted.
Her gaze drifted to her bandaged arm. The dull throb reminded her she was still here. Still breathing when maybe she shouldn’t be.
“If I rot in here,” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling, “no one would care.”
The words hung in the air, soft and certain.
No one would ask where she went. No one would send letters. No one would remember the girl who fought to keep her parents’ memory alive, who played basketball until her fingers bled, who wrote her pain into pages that no longer existed.
She let her head fall back against the wall, her eyes staring up into the dim light.
“Who could care about a demon?” she breathed.
That entire time she didn’t cry. She just sat there quiet, hollow, and still listening to the faint hum of the lights as time slipped away, unseen everything and everyone.
__________________________________
Bobby sat at his desk, papers scattered everywhere reports, transcripts, and printouts of Mira’s record. The light from his laptop cast a pale blue glow across his tired face. He’d barely slept the night before. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her expression blank, guarded, eyes that had seen too much.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose before reaching for his phone. Maybe today she’d talk. Maybe something would finally break through that wall she kept between them.
He dialed the number for the Seoul Correctional Facility. The line rang a few times before a woman’s voice answered, brisk and official.
“Seoul Correctional, Officer Myers speaking.”
“Hi, this is Attorney Bobby Han. I have a client there, Mira Kotadoski. I was hoping to schedule a follow-up meeting with her today.”
There was a pause on the other end the faint shuffle of papers.
“Mira Kotadoski,” the officer repeated, tone shifting slightly. “One moment, sir.”
Bobby leaned back in his chair, glancing at the clock. The rain still tapped faintly against the window outside. He heard a muffled conversation on the other end of the line then the officer returned.
“Mr. Han,” she said, voice more measured now. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible today.”
Bobby frowned. “Is she in isolation or something?”
A quiet exhale. “Yes, sir. There was an… incident yesterday. Ms. Kotadoski was involved in a fight during lunch hour with several other inmates. Four women. Two required medical attention.”
Bobby straightened. “A fight? Was she—”
“She was subdued by officers,” Han said, cutting him off. “Afterward, she was moved to solitary confinement for disciplinary reasons. During her time there, she… self-inflicted harm.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bobby’s throat felt dry. “She what?”
“She’s stable,” the officer clarified quickly. “The medical team treated the wound, but she’s under observation for the time being. Until further notice, no visitors including legal counsel are permitted until she’s cleared by the psychologist and medical staff.”
His jaw tightened. “How long will that take?”
“At least a week, sir.”
Bobby pressed his palm to his forehead, the weight of it all sinking in. He wanted to argue — to demand an exception but something in the officer’s tone told him it wouldn’t matter.
“I understand,” he said finally, his voice low. “Please let her know that her attorney will return as soon as she’s cleared. And… that someone’s still in her corner.”
There was a pause, softer this time. “I’ll make sure she gets the message, Sir.”
The call ended with a quiet click.
For a long time, Bobby just sat there, staring at his computer screen without seeing it. The hum of the city outside felt distant, unreal.
He’d known Mira was in pain he’d seen it but hearing it spoken so plainly, so clinically, tore something open inside him.
He looked down at the folder in front of him. Her photo the one taken at her arrest stared back. Blank expression, bruised lip, eyes like broken glass.
He whispered to himself, almost as if promising her through the paper:
“I’ll be back, kid. I’m not walking away.”
Sighing to himself he stood rubbing at his tired eyes. “I need coffee and a new view.”
__________________________________
The café was tucked into a quiet corner of the district one of those small, old-fashioned places that still smelled faintly of roasted beans and rain-damp wood. Bobby sat by the window, stirring his coffee long after the sugar had dissolved, his mind clearly somewhere else.
The bell over the door chimed softly, and in swept Celine Park sharp in a beige coat, hair tied back, eyes scanning the room until they landed on him.
“God, you look like you haven’t slept in a week,” she said as she slid into the seat across from him, setting her umbrella beside the table.
He smiled faintly. “You’d be right.”
“Case keeping you up?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Yeah.” He paused, glancing at her. “You heard what happened, didn’t you?”
Celine’s expression softened. “The fight? Yeah. It’s all over the inmate report board. I got the update this morning.” She sighed, reaching for her menu but not opening it. “They said she went after four inmates. Then self-harmed afterward. It’s bad, Bobby.”
“I know.”
“You still going to stick with her?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked out the rain-specked window, watching the people passing by, umbrellas bobbing like shadows. “I don’t think I could walk away now, even if I wanted to.”
Celine leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You always do this. You find the one client that everyone else has written off and decide you’re going to fix them. But this isn’t some misunderstood shoplifter or a drunk who made one bad call. This girl’s dangerous. The guards said she didn’t even stop fighting when they hit her with batons.”
Bobby’s jaw tensed. “Maybe because she’s spent her whole life being hit and nobody ever stopped to ask why.”
That caught Celine off guard. She studied him quietly. “You’ve been looking into her past, haven’t you?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Or trying to. There’s not much. Orphanage records, some photos, adoption files. Her parents died when she was a kid car accident. After that, she got adopted by the Kotadoskis. From the outside it looked fine good family, money, education. But…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “The more I looked, the more wrong it all felt.”
“How so?”
“Pictures,” he said. “When she was adopted, she had bruises. Marks. Later on, she’s winning spelling bees, top of her class, playing basketball but not a single photo of her smiling. Not one. Like she was going through the motions just to keep breathing.”
Celine sighed and leaned back, crossing her arms. “That’s tragic, Bobby, but trauma doesn’t excuse violence.”
“It explains it,” he countered quietly.
“Maybe. But it won’t save her in court.”
He looked at her then, eyes tired but steady. “I’m not trying to save her from punishment. I’m trying to save her from being erased. From being treated like she’s nothing but her worst moment.”
Celine’s expression softened, her voice gentler now. “You really believe she can come back from this?”
He gave a small, humorless smile. “I think she never got the chance to start.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The clink of cups, the low hum of other conversations filled the silence.
Celine finally broke it. “You know the press is going to tear this apart. You defending her it’s going to look like you’re siding against victims.”
“I’m not siding against anyone,” Bobby said. “I’m standing with someone who’s completely alone.”
She shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You haven’t changed, you know that? Always chasing the hopeless cause.”
He chuckled softly. “Someone’s got to.”
Their food arrived untouched for several minutes as the rain continued to fall against the window.
Celine finally said, “When she gets out of solitary, call me. I want to see what you see in her.”
Bobby looked up, surprised. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” She smirked faintly. “If you’re going to burn your career for this girl, I might as well bring the matches.”
He laughed for the first time in days a tired, genuine sound.
“Deal,” he said.
Bobby stirred his coffee absentmindedly, watching the steam curl and fade between them. The café had grown quieter, the lunch rush gone, leaving only the faint sound of rain against the window and the low hum of conversation from a distant table.
Celine sat across from him, a notebook open beside her untouched sandwich. She was watching him studying, really the way she always did when she thought he was keeping something to himself.
Finally, she broke the silence. “Your thinking about her aren’t you?”
Bobby didn’t bother pretending otherwise. “Yeah.”
“The self-harm?” she guessed.
He nodded slowly, his voice low. “I can’t stop thinking about it. The way the officer described it how she just… snapped. Then it all went quiet. Like she was trying to silence herself.”
Celine’s expression softened, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I’ve seen plenty of angry people, Celine. Violent ones, too. But there’s something different with Mira,” he went on. “She’s not angry at the world she’s angry at herself. Like she’s carrying all this guilt and has no idea where to put it.”
He sighed, setting his cup down. “I can’t help her if I don’t understand where that came from. I think I need to go see her parents the Kotadoskis. Maybe they can fill in the blanks. Or maybe I can find something of hers a journal, letters, anything that tells me who she used to be before all this.”
Celine raised a brow. “You think her parents will even talk to you after what happened?”
“I have to try,” Bobby said simply. “She’s not talking, she’s barely eating, and the prison won’t let me see her until next week. I can’t just sit around doing nothing.”
Celine leaned back in her chair, her tone more cautious now. “Just… be careful with them, Bobby. I’ve talked to them indirectly. They’ve been keeping distance. Her mother’s devastated, her father’s furious. They already told the press they ‘don’t recognize her anymore.’”
He frowned. “You’ve spoken with them?”
“I had to,” she said matter-of-factly. “My clients the girls she attacked their families are following every move of this case. They all think the same thing: Mira’s dangerous, unstable, and they want her punished to the fullest extent.”
Bobby folded his arms. “And you?”
Celine hesitated, her lips pressing into a line. “I think they’re scared. One of the girls Kim has a broken arm and twelve stitches along her cheek. Another, Hana, still has nightmares. They weren’t saints, Bobby. I’ve seen the statements. They said cruel things really cruel. But what Mira did… it wasn’t self-defense anymore. It was rage. Controlled or not, she nearly killed them.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. I know. But you can’t tell me words like that didn’t push her there. You saw the medical file she’s got history. Anxiety, trauma, no therapy after losing her parents, signs of physical abuse during childhood.”
“That doesn’t erase what she did,” Celine replied quietly.
“No,” Bobby said. “But it explains why she broke.”
The two sat in silence for a moment, the rain filling the space between them.
Celine looked down at her notes. “You know, one of the girls said something interesting. She said that before Mira attacked, she looked… empty. Not angry. Not sad. Just like she’d already given up.”
Bobby’s brow furrowed. “Empty,” he repeated softly.
“Yeah.” Celine sighed, closing her notebook. “It’s like she wasn’t fighting them she was fighting something else. Maybe herself.”
That stuck with him. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Then maybe I’m right to visit the parents. Maybe there’s something there something that’ll tell me when she stopped trying to fight back.”
Celine gave a small nod, though her eyes held worry. “Just promise me you’ll tread lightly. If they’re anything like the reports say, they’ve already cut her off emotionally. You might not get much compassion out of them.”
Bobby smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Compassion’s not what I’m after. I just want the truth.”
He stood, slipping his coat back on as the rain outside turned heavier.
Celine rose too, grabbing her umbrella. “You’re still not giving up on her, are you?”
He looked at her with a weary but firm gaze. “No. I just can’t.”
As they stepped outside, the rain hit the pavement in rhythmic taps. Celine hesitated before turning to him. “Bobby?”
“Yeah?”
“If you find something… something that makes you understand her better maybe I’ll stop seeing her as a monster too.”
He gave her a small, tired smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Then he stepped into the rain, determination hardening his expression.
He had a family to visit.
Bobby’s hands tightened around the steering wheel as the city lights faded behind him. The road stretched out ahead, dark and slick with rain. His windshield wipers dragged in slow, rhythmic arcs, but his mind was louder than the storm.
Could she have been abused?
The question looped over and over, refusing to let him rest.
Every photo he’d seen of Mira flashed in his head the faint bruises on her arms, the way her shoulders always seemed drawn in, like she was trying to make herself smaller. He thought of her silence during their first meeting, the way she didn’t flinch from his questions but simply didn’t answer them. Not defiance conditioning.
By the time he reached the Kotadoski house, it was late afternoon. The rain had thinned to a mist. Their home was nestled on a quiet, wealthy street lined with trimmed hedges and pristine lawns the kind of place where pain had to be hidden to keep the neighbors comfortable.
He straightened his tie, knocked on the door.
Mrs. Kotadoski answered first a woman in her mid-fifties with perfectly brushed hair and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Oh, you must be Bobby,” she said politely. “Please, come in.”
The warmth of the house hit him instantly candles burning faintly, faint music playing from a speaker in the corner. The smell of dinner lingered in the air. Her husband appeared soon after, followed by their son, a tall young man with the same carefully polite expression.
They sat him down in the living room. Coffee was offered. The conversation started light the weather, the city, his work. It all felt rehearsed.
But the moment Bobby mentioned Mira, the entire room changed.
Mrs. Kotadoski’s smile faltered. The father’s eyes hardened slightly. The brother shifted in his seat, looking away. The warmth in the room drained, replaced with the kind of cold that came from something unspoken.
“Ah… yes,” the father said finally, his tone clipped. “Mira.”
“She’s my client,” Bobby said carefully. “I wanted to ask a few questions about her childhood, her behavior growing up. Anything that might help me understand her better.”
Silence. The mother folded her hands tightly in her lap. The father’s jaw twitched.
“She was… troubled,” he said at last. “We did what we could. But some children just can’t be helped.”
“Troubled how?” Bobby asked.
“She was distant,” the father replied shortly. “Cold. Always scribbling in that notebook of hers, muttering to herself. Never fit in at school, never listened. And then the fights started.”
The mother interjected softly, “We tried to love her. We really did.”
Bobby could feel the lie in the room thick and heavy. Their eyes avoided his. Their voices wavered when they said her name.
After a few more evasive answers, the father stood. “I think that’s enough for today, Mr. Myers. I’d rather not discuss her any further.”
Bobby nodded, masking his suspicion with a polite smile. “Of course. I understand completely. But, uh before I go, could I use your restroom?”
The father hesitated, glancing toward the stairs. “It’s upstairs. Second door on the right. Don’t wander.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bobby said lightly.
He climbed the stairs slowly, heart thudding in his chest. The hallway was immaculate no photos of Mira anywhere. Only the brother’s framed certificates, the family’s smiling portraits. Not a single trace that she’d ever lived there.
He passed the restroom then turned right instead of left.
Her door was half-open. The nameplate had been removed, leaving faint outlines of where it once hung. He stepped inside.
The room was eerily bare. Just a bed. A small desk. A closet with its door slightly ajar. The air smelled stale, like it hadn’t been opened in years. He pulled out his phone, snapping quiet photos the emptiness, the faint scratch marks on the wall near the desk. Nothing personal, nothing living.
Then his foot hit something uneven.
He froze. Looked down.
A floorboard near the bed sat slightly raised.
Heart pounding, he crouched and slipped his car key into the crack, prying it up carefully. The board lifted with a soft creak.
Inside was a small space dust, a few old wrappers… and three objects.
A small, worn stuffed animal a rabbit with one ear missing.
A necklace, silver but tarnished with age.
And a journal.
He swallowed hard, glancing toward the door, then tucked all three items into his jacket. He replaced the board and stood only to find himself staring at the father in the doorway.
The man’s expression was sharp, furious beneath the polite mask.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I— I got lost,” Bobby stammered. “Thought this was the restroom.”
“Get out,” the father said coldly. “Now. Before I call the police for trespassing.”
Bobby nodded quickly, his hands raised in mock surrender. “Of course. I’m sorry. My mistake.”
He didn’t stop moving until he was outside. The moment he got into his car, he locked the doors and exhaled shakily, the adrenaline still coursing through him.
Then he pulled the journal from his jacket. The cover was cracked, the corners darkened with age. He opened it carefully.
The first few pages were simple entries — thoughts about school, loneliness, small doodles. Then the tone shifted.
The handwriting grew tighter. Uneven.
He hit me again today. Said it was my fault for talking back. My wrists hurt so much I can’t write straight. I won’t cry. Crying makes him madder.
No dinner again. Mom said I embarrassed her. I was hungry so I tried to sneak food and he found me. I couldn’t move my hands for two days.
Bobby’s throat tightened. He turned the page.
They tried cutting my hair. Said it would make me normal. I fought back and got slapped. My brother watched. He didn’t say anything. He never does.
Page after page, it got worse descriptions of beatings, nights spent locked in dark closets, being told she was a “demon” for having pink hair, for crying, for dreaming.
Some pages were smeared faint spots of dried blood on the paper.
I think they hate me. Maybe they always did. Maybe I really am what they say I am. Demon.
He turned another page. His chest tightened.
It’s quiet when I cut. It doesn’t hurt like it used to. The blood makes it quiet. Peaceful.
And finally, the last entry dated two years ago.
Tomorrow is the anniversary. Maybe I’ll see Mom and Dad again the real ones. Maybe I’ll finally stop hearing the voices. I don’t want to be here anymore.
The ink ended there but the faint imprint of her handwriting lingered on the page, like a whisper that never quite left.
Bobby sat in his car, the rain starting up again, heavier this time.
His hands shook as he closed the journal and pressed it against his chest.
He had proof now real proof. But it didn’t feel like victory.
It felt like heartbreak.
“Jesus, Mira…” he murmured, voice cracking. “What the hell did they do to you?”
He sat there for a long time in the rain, staring at the dark house through the windshield, feeling the weight of every word she had written — and knowing that for the first time, he finally understood her silence.
Bobby’s hands were still trembling when he pulled out his phone. The rain outside hadn’t stopped — it streaked down the windshield like melted glass, blurring the world around him. He stared at Mira’s journal sitting on the passenger seat, the faint scent of dust and old paper clinging to the air. His stomach churned as he scrolled through his contacts, thumb hesitating over one name.
He pressed Call.
“Celine?”
“Bobby?” Her voice sounded calm, but there was a trace of fatigue she’d probably been reviewing her own stack of case files. “What’s wrong? You sound… off.”
“I— I found something,” he said, voice tight. “You’re going to want to see this. It’s Mira’s. It’s… a lot.”
There was a pause on the other end. He could almost hear her shift upright.
“Her what?”
“Journal,” he said quietly. “From her old house. I shouldn’t have… I wasn’t supposed to find it, but I did. Celine, it’s bad. Really bad.”
Silence stretched for a moment. Then Celine spoke, her voice low and firm.
“Come over. Now.”
__________________________________________
It didn’t take long before Bobby’s car pulled into her driveway, headlights cutting across the small yard. Celine’s house was softly lit inside, the warmth spilling through the front window. He killed the engine, took a deep breath, and grabbed the journal, still wrapped in his jacket.
When she opened the door, she immediately saw his expression pale, shaken, eyes heavy from what he’d read. Without a word, she stepped aside and let him in.
Rumi and Zoey were sitting on the couch in the living room, a bowl of popcorn between them and a movie paused on the screen. The two teens looked up when Bobby entered, both noticing the tension that followed him in.
Celine offered a small, forced smile to them. “Girls, why don’t you head upstairs for a bit, okay? Bobby and I need to talk.”
Rumi frowned slightly, exchanging a glance with Zoey. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just—grown-up stuff,” Celine said softly, resting a hand on Rumi’s shoulder. “Go on, please.”
Zoey nodded, tugging at Rumi’s sleeve. “Come on.”
As they disappeared up the stairs, Celine closed the door to the living room, the warmth fading into something heavier, more serious.
She motioned for Bobby to sit. “Alright,” she said quietly, folding her arms. “Show me what you found.”
Bobby sat down, the old leather couch creaking beneath him. He unwrapped the journal from his jacket and placed it on the coffee table between them. Its worn brown cover looked harmless, but both of them could feel the weight in it.
“This is hers,” he said softly. “Hidden under a floorboard in her old room. Her adoptive family didn’t want me there they got hostile the second I mentioned her name.”
Celine’s brows furrowed. “Hostile how?”
“Evasive. Cold. Like they were hiding something.” He rubbed his forehead. “And after reading this… I think I know what.”
He opened to one of the pages the one with dried blood stains and crooked handwriting. The words were faint but legible.
He hit me again today. Said it was my fault for talking back.
They say I’m not theirs. That I don’t deserve to eat.
Celine’s eyes moved slowly across the page, her expression tightening.
He locked me in the closet again. It’s dark. I can hear the voices when I close my eyes. They tell me it’ll stop if I stop being bad.
Her lips parted slightly, a quiet breath escaping her. She turned another page the one where Mira described cutting herself to “feel quiet again.”
Celine leaned back, hand covering her mouth. “Oh my God…”
“Yeah,” Bobby muttered. “It’s worse the more you read. Every page—it’s just pain, over and over. There’s no exaggeration here, Celine. No embellishment. Just a kid trying to survive.”
He turned to the final page and slid it toward her. The entry about wanting to die on the anniversary of her real parents’ deaths sat in thin, uneven ink.
Celine’s eyes softened, the faintest hint of heartbreak beneath her composed exterior. “She wasn’t just troubled,” she whispered. “She was traumatized.”
Bobby nodded grimly. “And they covered it up. Everything. That’s why she’s like this. That’s why she snapped.”
Celine sat back, exhaling slowly. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the rain outside. Her gaze lingered on the journal then lifted to Bobby.
“This changes everything,” she said finally. “Her aggression, the self-harm, the voices… they’re all symptoms, not character flaws. The abuse explains it all.”
Bobby rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Exactly. I can use this. We can build a defense around it. But—” he hesitated, lowering his voice. “I need to be careful how we present it. It’s raw. There’s evidence of physical abuse, but no official reports. I’m walking a thin line here.”
Celine nodded, still staring at the faded handwriting. “You’ll find a way. Try to get a trauma specialist, maybe a psychologist to corroborate the signs.”
She looked at him again this time, her voice softer. “You did the right thing, Bobby.”
He chuckled bitterly. “Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like I just opened a wound she’s been bleeding from her whole life.”
Celine reached out, resting a hand on his arm. “Sometimes you have to uncover the pain to start healing it.”
He looked at her, the weariness in his eyes easing slightly. For the first time that day, he felt like he might actually stand a chance of saving Mira not just in court, but from herself.