As I read the densely packed lines, the deep crease between my brows refused to smooth out. Once I’d finished the article, I let out a frustrated sigh.“Self-defense.”That was the crux of Nathaniel Miller’s defense. The rest was obvious without reading further: he’d spent the trial denigrating and humiliating the victim, inflating every minor flaw to monstrous proportions.“My child did not live a particularly exemplary life.”Mrs. Smith had confessed in a hollow tone.“If all of that becomes public, people will blame him. I can’t… I simply can’t allow that…”She wept at the thought. I could only imagine how savagely Miller would tear into every secret. What terrible things had her dead son done to devastate his mother so completely? Rubbing my eyes in distress, I forced myself to let her go. And the outcome was this:Eight years’ imprisonment, with eligibility for parole after three.That was the entire sentence Davis received: involuntary manslaughter, no intent to kill, and convinced he’d acted in fear when the victim—whom he claimed had been stalking him—suddenly appeared at the party. No doubt Miller would have argued exactly that in court. It was all over now, however.At least the family would receive a substantial settlement. That had been part of the negotiation—but in truth, it wasn’t my responsibility. I should have told them to pursue civil damages. Yet after everything, I couldn’t bear to see them go without any compensation. Of course, I’d obtained Mrs. Smith’s consent in advance. Having lost their primary breadwinner, Anthony, they’d suffered financially; they greeted the news with relief, albeit mixed with disbelief.Mrs. Smith accepted the terms without objection. In lieu of a harsher sentence, money would be their recompense—a trivial hurdle for those drowning in wealth.I steeled myself for the day of reckoning, but Miller himself never appeared. Three other lawyers from his overflowing firm came instead to finalize the deal. And so the Smith vs. Davis case closed.Once more proving that “money solves everything.”“Haah.”I drew a long, defeated breath as I re-confirmed in print what I already knew. My body felt as though it were melting into the chair.Rain began falling early that afternoon. Perched on the windowsill, I stared blankly out the pane, cigarette in hand. I’d taken a day off, citing ill health—but had no plans beyond lounging in my studio all day. Had the weather been fair, I might’ve gone to a park; but with rain, there was no reason to leave.The patter of raindrops danced erratically across the glass like a restless pianist. I watched the downpour, dragging on my cigarette. It’d been ages since I’d spent a day so empty, with no agenda.Despite the lack of plans, boredom eluded me. I simply stared at the rain and surrendered to my own exhaustion. Perhaps I was burned out—after years of relentless forward motion. Maybe this was what burnout felt like…Just then, the doorbell rang.Who could that be?Startled, I hesitated. A moment later, the bell rang again, longer this time. Reluctantly abandoning the windowsill, I crossed the room. As I reached for the intercom, the bell sounded once more. I pressed the button, silencing the sharp beep, and called out, {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} irritation clear in my voice.“Who is it?”After two or three seconds, a reply came.“Nathaniel Miller.”I fell silent. Had I heard correctly? As if sensing my shock, he repeated—“Nathaniel Miller.”Then, in a tone laced with amusement, he asked,“If you are Prosecutor Chrissy Jin, you must know who I am.”Even if I weren’t Chrissy Jin, who could not know Nathaniel Miller? The reason he knew my address was simple: he’d driven me home last time. Still, why would he come here now, unannounced?I had no clue. Dumbfounded, I couldn’t just stand there. Before the line cut off and he rang again, I flung open the door. As he climbed the stairs to my studio, I hurried to smooth my appearance and tidy the place. Kicking a pile of clothes under the bed, I heard the doorbell once more.Exhaling, I walked back. This time he didn’t ring again—he must’ve known I was inside. Annoyed by the obviousness of it, I unlocked and opened the door. There stood the familiar figure, looking down at me. Straining my neck to meet his gaze, he lifted the corner of his mouth and spoke.“Prosecutor.”He inclined his head in greeting, then shifted his eyes to survey my studio. It wasn’t difficult—Miller’s eyes sat several inches above my head.Returning his gaze, I noted his expression was much the same as before, yet something felt off—his eyes seemed softer, somehow.Dismissing it as my imagination, I asked curtly,“What brings you here so suddenly?”At my stiff tone, Miller narrowed his eyes and let slip that trademark mocking smile. Unconsciously I furrowed my brow—but then I noticed he was holding something in his hand, the one not gripping his cane. Startled, I glanced back and forth between his face and the object: a box emblazoned with the logo of a famously expensive champagne.

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