Gimcheon Juvenile Prison (1)

"HEY!! Get those cuffs on him!! NOW!!!"

"An ambulance!! 119!! 119!!!"

The moment I tilted my head, I caught sight of Hong Chang-sik's face, sunken into a pool of his own blood. It was a scene far too surreal to be real.

Barely a minute ago, the man had been moaning about how he still had to make a living even as he declared, "I am truly sorry for what I've done." Now bright-red blood was surging from his chest in thick, heaving waves.

—Click.

Cold metal bit into my wrists.

I didn't bother resisting. There was no reason to. The moment that fifteen-ton truck, with a drunk behind the wheel, had crushed my family beneath its wheels, I had died right along with them. All that remained in my seat was the wreckage.

The solitary cell of the courthouse detention house was silent. I remembered reading articles, not long ago, about detention facilities being so overcrowded there wasn't a bed to be found—and yet here I was, in a cell of my own. Shooting a man inside a courthouse really was something, apparently.

But thanks to that, I'd been granted the time to pick apart this chaos with a certain rational calm.

What these characters floating before my eyes meant came down to one of two things. Either I had lost my mind, or the world was showing an omen of its end.

Awakened.

I knew the word. Why wouldn't I? It was the sort of term you grew sick of seeing in the endless flood of web novels and webtoons that poured out the moment you switched on a smartphone. The problem was that it had only ever been fiction—and the world I was standing in, the one I lived and breathed in, was nonfiction.

I quietly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠closed my eyes. If this had been a few months ago, hallucinations like those would have had me leaping around in wonder. Now they barely registered. A listlessness so complete it felt abnormal had swallowed my whole body.

Did I regret my revenge? No. Not a chance.

The revenge had been satisfying. Far more satisfying than I had imagined. But what came trailing after that satisfaction was a vicious emptiness—the knowledge that I was now, truly, the only one left. If the guards' bullets had cut me down right there, if that had carried me back to my family's side, wouldn't that have been better than this?

The world was in an uproar over what I had done. None of it would ever have reached my cell in the detention house, but the man who came for my visits—a public defender—was good enough to fill me in.

"Murder. Violation of the Firearms Act. A serious violent offense committed in a public place."

"Let me give you the conclusion first: this case has no way out."

"Not guilty? Self-defense? Diminished mental capacity? I won't argue any of those. No—I can't. None of them would land anyway."

"You fired a gun in open court, and the victim died on the spot. Ordinarily, under conditions like these, there is almost nothing a defense attorney can do."

"The one sliver of possibility is that you, Jeong Ba-reum, are still a minor. And that the public's sense of justice might well be angry enough—a four-year sentence for drunk driving that killed three people. But that very same anger means the judge and the prosecutors will be thoroughly furious, because you 'dared' to do what you did inside a courtroom."

"Ah, and let me tell you one word you must never let cross your lips in there: 'justice.'"

"Ba-reum, you are not the victim anymore. The moment you pulled that trigger, you crossed the line. In court, showing the utmost remorse is your best play."

"The judge who sentences you is human too. Your entire family dead, you the sole survivor—those circumstances will certainly be weighed."

"That the original verdict, while legally sound, was emotionally difficult to accept. That much, we can argue."

"Let's see this through together."

Honestly, compared to the court-appointed lawyers you see in movies and dramas—the kind who quip, "You know how much I get paid to defend this case? 300,000 won. Ten thousand."—this man was remarkably passionate and conscientious.

No doubt the fact that my case had become a matter of national obsession poured a little extra fuel on this man's fire. But motivated or not, nothing stirred in me. As though I were wandering through a dream, my time slid past at great speed.

"Here is the psychiatric evaluation of the defendant. Your Honor, I respectfully ask that you examine the specialist's findings on page three of this report."

The lawyer paused to steady his breath, drawing the eyes of the courtroom to him.

"The defendant, Jeong Ba-reum, is presently in a state of 'moderately severe acute stress disorder' and 'dissociative emotional blunting.' In plain terms, his brain has forcibly switched off every emotional circuit to shield itself from a suffering too terrible to bear—an 'emotional shutdown,' so to speak."

"It has been only a few months. The defendant was a student at a prestigious foreign language high school, ranking at the very top of his school—a fine young man, a model to his peers. A boy without a single blemish on his record, dreaming a dazzling future wrapped in the warmth of a loving family."

"But the defendant was forced to watch, with his own eyes, as his ordinary, warm family was trampled beneath a massive truck and destroyed past all recognition. And a boy of seventeen, tormented by the guilt of being the only one to survive—what they call 'survivor's syndrome'—was made to carve into his mind, at last, the sight of a man dying from a bullet fired by his own hand."

"At present, the defendant can feel neither sorrow nor rage—nor even fear of the future now closing in on him. He perceives reality as unreality, sunk in an apathy so profound that he does nothing but breathe. Your Honor, the defendant's unresponsiveness is not contempt for his crime, nor an attempt to deceive this court."

"Until this case, the defendant was the most ideal, most diligent student our society could ask for. That such a child committed so terrible a crime is itself proof of a shock behind it cruel enough to shatter the boy's reason entirely. Your Honor—I beg you, I beg you—please, please weigh in your sentencing the prior tragedy that took the defendant's entire family, the true starting point of this case."

The lawyer's statement ended.

And across the aisle, the flint-faced, hard-line prosecutor sprang to his feet.

"Your Honor, the prosecution, as human beings, likewise expresses deep regret for the devastating tragedy the defense has just described."

A level voice with no feeling in it at all.

"But what we must weigh now is not emotion. It is law, and reason. The defense speaks of 'survivor's syndrome,' painting the defendant's emotional state at the time of the offense as all but insane. But his state of mind now and his state of mind then cannot be the same."

He set the psychiatric report the defense had submitted lightly down on his desk.

"Let us return to the truth of the case. The weapon the defendant used was a homemade firearm he fabricated himself with a 3D printer. Sourcing the blueprints through the dark back roads of the internet, printing the components, assembling them into a lethal weapon that could truly kill a human being—the process takes days at the least, weeks at the most."

"Is that the impulsive act of a boy who could not master his grief? It is not. This was an exceedingly cold-blooded and rational 'premeditated murder,' planned ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with precision over a long period by a mind that carried unmistakable murderous intent. The hours the defendant spent preparing this murder are far too deliberate for the case to be reduced to a matter of psychology."

"Above all, the defendant pulled the trigger inside the courtroom—the very heart of the Korean judiciary—precisely at the moment the state's power to punish was being pronounced. This is a grave act of terrorism that laughs at the foundations of the rule of law and mocks the judicial system in its entirety."

For the first time, feeling broke through the prosecutor's face.

Rage.

And a look of iron resolve.

"The Republic of Korea is a nation of laws. However pitiable the tragedy, however much sympathy it deserves, it can never become an absolution for private vengeance. If our law drapes this case in mercy, society will slide back into an age of barbarism that no one will be able to govern. The prosecution therefore strongly demands the heaviest punishment the law permits, in view of the premeditation and gravity of the defendant's crime."

A heavy silence settled over the courtroom.

Having heard both sides out, the presiding judge tidied his documents and opened his mouth slowly.

"This case is a matter of the utmost gravity, one that has shaken the foundations of the judicial order of the Republic of Korea."

A steely voice rolled through the microphone.

"The defendant obtained blueprints for a homemade firearm over the internet and fabricated it with his own hands, abusing a high order of intellect to plan his crime with precision. Beyond that, to inflict private retribution in this sacred courtroom, where the nation's power to punish is exercised, is an act of grave terrorism that goes beyond simple murder to deny the rule of law itself. No grounds whatsoever can justify it."

At the judge's withering censure, the public defender's face went rigid.

"First, this court feels profound human sorrow for the devastating tragedy the defendant, Jeong Ba-reum, was made to endure. The despair and agony of a boy of seventeen who lost every member of the family he loved overnight and was left behind alone—we can scarcely begin to fathom them."

"Furthermore, this court has given full weight to the circumstances favorable to the defendant: that he was suffering severe survivor's syndrome and post-traumatic stress disorder; that until this case he had devoted himself to his studies at a prestigious foreign language high school, a model student without a single mark of delinquency. Accordingly, this court shall set the penalty applying every possible reduction available to it."

The lawyer seized my hand tightly. What I felt through that grip was a thread of relief—but at the judge's next words, that thread of relief transformed into burning rage.

"Case number 2022 GoHap 5885. The charges: murder, and violation of the Act on the Safety Management of Guns, Swords, Explosives, and Other Dangerous Articles."

"This court sentences the defendant Jeong Ba-reum to imprisonment: four years at minimum, eight at maximum."

Bang, bang, bang— with each fall of the gavel, the murmur the gallery had been swallowing burst out all at once.

"Four years minimum? Eight maximum?"

"No—okay, even if he did kill someone, he's a first offender, a model student from an elite school, a kid who was in psychiatric care because his whole family died. And the maximum is floating at eight years?"

"Statistically, even when a juvenile kills, unless the case is truly vile it caps out around five-to-ten. But with that laundry list of mitigating factors, four and eight? The bench is so thoroughly enraged about a gun going off in their courtroom that they've punished him for the crime of offending them—packed the sentence right to the ceiling. Merciful in name only. This is effectively the maximum."

The reporters' whispers lodged in my ears, perfectly distinct. Through the public defender's crushed grip, I felt a fury beyond words.

"An appeal must be filed within seven days—"

Whatever else the judge said barely registered. My head was packed with nothing but those two numbers: four years, and eight.

Four years. That was the total the murderous bastard received for drunk driving—four years, for mashing my father, my mother, my little sister, three human beings, into unrecognizable meat. And I, who had avenged them, receiving the 'utmost mercy' the law deigned to grant, was to serve four years minimum and eight maximum?

—BANG!!!

"A father who, no matter how work swallowed him, always saved his weekends for his family. A mother ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠who, even working herself ragged, never once let our breakfast slide. A little sister, bouncing around, so proud she'd be starting middle school soon."

Every gaze in the courtroom crashed onto me at once.

"Remove the defendant."

The judge ordered the guards waiting at my side.

Overwhelming strength bore down on me.

The rage inside me—rage I had believed long dead—jerked its head up.

And in that instant, those familiar characters rose before my eyes.

All of it—into Strength.

A torrent of fine print scrolled past my eyes, explaining who knew what. None of it mattered right now.

"And the verdict of this court: that the worth of those three lives is the same as—no, worth even less than—that of a murderer who crushed three people to death and then had the gall to plead his own livelihood."

The corner of my mouth curled upward before I could stop it.

"G-Guards!! What are you doing!! Get him out of here, NOW!!"

Alarm cracked across the judge's face.

The guards gripping both my arms heaved and strained, and it changed nothing. Their strength—strength I could not have resisted mere minutes ago—was nothing at all to me now. And there, hemmed in by their reddening faces, I delivered my last words, calm and even.

"If you mean to kill a man, don't reach for a gun—run him down with a fifteen-ton truck. No, it needn't be a truck; just be sure you find a method 'the law allows.' I will engrave that lesson deep into my heart."

I needed no guard's help to walk out of this nauseating courtroom.

On my own two feet, I turned my back on the court myself.

Jeong Ba-reum. Four years minimum, eight maximum. Confined to Gimcheon Juvenile Prison.

"Gimcheon Juvenile Prison (1)" — End

Author's Note — Thank you!!