Lies Won't Come Out

That night before the trial, Seo Hajin was in her office running one last check. The evidence was flawless. The physical items, the comparative analysis—everything. Yet sleep refused to come. The defeat from a year ago kept resurfacing.

Back then, she'd had evidence too. And still she'd lost. A courtroom wasn't a place that ran on evidence alone. The smooth tongue of a seasoned defense attorney, the judge's leanings, invisible pressure. All of it had always come before the truth.

Go Jinsu walked in carrying coffee.

Seo Hajin closed the file.

She looked out the window at the sky. It was black and silent. She wondered how that being would watch this trial. Whether humans could properly handle the truth it had laid bare for them. She felt as if she were the one being tested.

On the morning of the trial, the courthouse was packed with people. As Seo Hajin walked toward the prosecution table, she scanned the gallery. There wasn't an empty seat. This was the first major trial since the Barrier had gone up. The entire nation was watching—both inside the courtroom and outside through the screens in the sky.

In the front row of the gallery sat Yun Jeongsuk, dressed in black, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Beside her was the wife of the second victim. Two mothers, two wives, sitting side by side. Seo Hajin met their eyes for a brief moment and gave a small nod. It meant she had come to keep her promise.

Farther back in the gallery was Cha Pilgu. The old journalist had his notebook open, sharp eyes sweeping the courtroom. Next to him sat his junior, Yuna. Seo Hajin exchanged quick glances with both of them.

And then there was the defendant's seat. Ju Yeonghan sat there. He no longer wore the panicked face that had fled across the sky a few days earlier. He was dressed in a crisp suit, hair neatly combed, expression calm.

Beside him sat the defense team in a neat row. Five of them. All the most expensive lawyers in the country. Seo Hajin knew them. They were the very same faces that had trampled her a year ago.

The presiding judge called the session to order. The lead defense attorney rose first. A white-haired veteran lawyer with a nearly undefeated record. He opened his mouth with a relaxed smile.

He slowly surveyed the courtroom, every gesture radiating the confidence of a man who had done this a thousand times.

The gallery stirred. The attorney's logic was smooth. A year ago, that same smoothness had let them win.

"Prosecution, please respond," the judge said, looking at Seo Hajin.

She stood without haste. Her voice was dry and concise.

The courtroom fell silent. The defense attorney's eyebrows rose slightly.

The murmuring grew louder. Smiles spread across the defense team's faces. The prosecution had just thrown away its strongest card. Or so it seemed to them.

Seo Hajin continued.

She lifted the documents.

The defense attorney's smile stiffened slightly.

Seo Hajin looked the attorney straight in the eye.

The defense team was experienced. When their admissibility card was blocked, they moved on to the next. Their first witness was the one who had recanted his statement—the very man who had called Seo Hajin a few days earlier, saying he would finally tell the truth. The defense attorney intended to shake him.

The witness flinched. He was an ordinary citizen. Under the pressure of a seasoned lawyer, his voice trembled.

The witness was at a loss for words. His face turned deathly pale. In the gallery, Yun Jeongsuk watched him with a pained expression. Seo Hajin raised an objection, but the defense attorney's blade was relentless. This was exactly how they had operated a year ago. Crushing weak people who tried to tell the truth with practiced eloquence. Turning the witness into a liar and the real liar into a victim.

Tears welled in the witness's eyes. He looked like he regretted stepping forward. Like he was thinking he'd been a fool to come, that he was being victimized again.

It wasn't just the witness. The defense team's attacks spread in every direction. They latched onto histories of recanted statements, claimed the defendant had diminished capacity, and magnified minor procedural flaws in evidence collection. Each move was precise. A year ago, at least one of those cards would have landed. Seo Hajin knew it. That was why she was tense. No matter how solid the evidence, a courtroom was where people made judgments. A seasoned defense attorney knew how to exploit those gaps.

Two hours passed. The battle remained fierce. In the gallery, Yun Jeongsuk gripped her hands even tighter. Every time the defense attorney skillfully twisted words, her face grew paler. Was he going to slip away again? Just like a year ago?

Cha Pilgu scribbled rapidly in his notebook. He recorded the defense team's tactics and the old days when those tactics had worked. He had seen this scene far too many times.

Then, just as the judge was about to declare a recess, the air in the courtroom changed subtly.

At first, no one noticed. But from the ceiling, a faint light began to spread. It wasn't the glow of fluorescent bulbs. A transparent membrane of unknown origin slowly enveloped the entire courtroom.

Jeong Minho, seated in the gallery, lifted his head. The moment he saw the light, he instinctively understood. It was the same hue that had covered the sky a few days earlier.

He had applied for a gallery pass today to see this with his own eyes instead of just watching as a spectator. But over the past two hours, his heart had grown heavier and heavier. Every time the defense attorney cornered a witness, it felt like the truth was being buried again. He had begun to think that in front of such clever people, ordinary citizens lost even when they spoke the truth.

Yet now this light seemed to be changing something.

And then, inside everyone's minds, a voice rang out.

Seo Hajin froze. The defense team, the judge, and every spectator stiffened.

The light seeped into every corner of the courtroom. At that instant, the lead defense attorney's face changed. He had been preparing his next statement—a carefully crafted lie to prove the defendant's diminished capacity. He opened his mouth. But the words would not come out.

The veteran lawyer tried again. The words rose all the way to his throat, but they stopped right before his lips. It felt as if an invisible hand were pressing down on his neck. The moment he tried to speak a lie, his tongue froze. He was bewildered. This had never happened to him in his entire life. He cleared his throat and tried once more.

It stopped again. The lie that the defendant had been incapable of normal judgment would not leave his mouth. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

The courtroom began to stir. People realized something was wrong. The attorney was stuttering. The undefeated lawyer could not finish a single sentence.

Watching the scene, Seo Hajin slowly understood. Lies would not come out. Not inside this courtroom. Not inside the Domain of Truth.

She looked toward the gallery. Yun Jeongsuk had her hand over her mouth, staring at the spectacle. The courtroom that had been filled with lies a year ago had become a place where lies could find no footing today.

The veteran lawyer flipped through his documents with trembling hands, searching for another argument. An argument that could be made with nothing but the truth. But among the things he had prepared, there was almost no truth at all.

The judge swallowed dryly and asked in a shaky voice,

The veteran lawyer could not answer. He had nothing left to say. Once the lies were stripped away, there was nothing left to argue.

And in that silence, everyone realized the same truth: from now on, only the truth could survive in this courtroom. Money, connections, eloquence—everything built on lies would crumble before this light.

In the gallery, Jeong Minho held his breath as he watched. He had thought the truth would be buried again. He had believed ordinary people always lost. Yet now the undefeated lawyer could not finish a single sentence. Because he could not speak a lie.

For the first time, he saw the scales tipping. The scales that had always tilted toward those with power were leaning the other way today.

Yun Jeongsuk covered her mouth with both hands and wept silently. A year ago, in this very courtroom, her son had died twice—once in reality, once to lies. Today, those lies had lost their place to stand.

Cha Pilgu wrote rapidly in his notebook, his hand shaking. The old journalist who had spent his life watching courtrooms where lies always won was witnessing the opposite for the first time. He wrote a single line: Today, the rules of the courtroom have changed.

Seo Hajin slowly rose from the prosecution table. The Domain of Truth. The being had set the board. But fighting on that board was her responsibility. In a courtroom where lies could not exist, all that remained was to lay the truth out clearly. And ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠something humans had to do.

She opened her mouth.

The courtroom froze. Examining the defendant. In this courtroom where lies would not come out, she was asking to question the defendant directly.

The veteran lawyer tried to stand in a hurry. He had to stop it. But how could he stop it? To give a reason, he would need another lie. And lies would not come out here.

The judge slowly nodded.

For the first time, Ju Yeonghan looked at his lawyer with uneasy eyes. The lawyer turned away. There was nothing he could do to help. The composure that had been on Ju Yeonghan's face only days ago—the face that had left the courthouse smiling, believing his father would fix everything—had vanished. His face was now deathly pale.

For the first time in his life, he sat in a place where none of the things that had always protected him worked. Not money. Not lawyers. Not lies.

Next, it was his turn to open his mouth. In this courtroom where lies would not come out.