The next morning, rain lashed against the courthouse steps like an omen. Reporters huddled beneath umbrellas, shouting questions that nobody wanted to answer.
Hana and Mr. Choi arrived early, walking side by side through the gray drizzle. Her teddy bear was tucked safely in her arms, her sketchpad pressed against her chest like armor.
Inside, the courtroom was colder than usual. The jurors filed in one by one, their expressions unreadable. But Hana noticed it instantly—the man from her drawing.
Juror #6. The one who had met the scarred man.
He looked nervous, glancing around too often, his hands trembling as he took his seat.
Mr. Choi leaned down toward Hana. "That's him?"
Hana nodded once.
Mr. Choi's jaw tightened. "Then today, we make him talk."
When the judge entered, everyone stood. The usual formalities passed in a blur. Then the prosecutor rose to call another witness.
But Mr. Choi interrupted. "Your Honor, before we proceed, the defense has a pressing concern regarding juror conduct."
The courtroom fell silent. The prosecutor's smile faded.
Judge Min frowned. "Mr. Choi, you'd better have a very good reason to interrupt proceedings."
"I do," Choi said evenly. He held up Hana's sketchbook. "This child may not speak, but she has been the truest witness in this room. Yesterday, during recess, she observed Juror #6 in conversation with a man known to be connected to the case."
The judge's eyes narrowed. "Connected in what way?"
Choi flipped open the sketchbook. The courtroom leaned forward.
The drawing was hauntingly precise: the vending machine, the juror's anxious posture, the scarred man's half-smile. Even the shape of the cigarette between his fingers.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The prosecutor shot to his feet. "Objection! This is absurd! You're basing accusations on a child's drawings—again?"
Choi turned, voice cutting through the uproar like a blade. "Then let's hear from Juror #6 himself. If there's nothing to hide, he'll have nothing to fear."
The juror's face went pale.
Judge Min sighed. "Juror #6, please approach."
The man stood shakily, avoiding everyone's gaze.
"Did you, at any time," the judge said slowly, "have contact with an individual associated with this case?"
The man swallowed hard. "I—I don't know what you mean—"
"Answer the question," Choi pressed, stepping forward. "You were seen speaking to a man with a facial scar, wearing a black coat. You accepted something from him."
The juror's hands trembled. Sweat glistened on his forehead. "It wasn't— it wasn't like that. He said he was from the defense!"
The entire courtroom gasped.
Choi froze. "From the defense?"
The man nodded quickly, eyes darting toward Hana. "He said he was working with you! Said the little girl's drawings were hurting your case, and he just wanted to 'make sure the right verdict came through.' He gave me a note, told me to keep quiet."
"Where's the note?" Choi demanded.
"I—I threw it away," the juror stammered. "I didn't know— I thought it was real!"
The judge banged her gavel. "Order! Order in the court!"
But chaos had already erupted. The prosecutor was shouting, the jurors were whispering furiously, and the scarred man—watching from the back—was gone.
Vanished again.
After the session was adjourned, Mr. Choi paced his office like a storm trapped in a bottle.
"He's framing me now," he muttered. "Using my name to manipulate the jury. He's two steps ahead."
Hana sat quietly, drawing again. Her pencil scratched softly, steady and deliberate. When she turned the page toward him, Choi's breath caught.
It was the same juror—but now, behind him, she had drawn the scarred man's shadow looming, whispering something unseen.
"You think he's still talking to him?" Choi asked softly.
Hana nodded.
Mrs. Park, who had been silently watching from the doorway, spoke at last. "Then you must make the court see what words cannot. Use her art. Let her show them the truth in a way no testimony could."
Choi's eyes hardened. "You're right. Tomorrow, we stop playing defense."
The next day, Choi presented something new: a display board covered with Hana's sketches, organized in order—each piece a moment in her memory, each drawing a silent testimony.
The courtroom watched as he spoke.
"This child cannot speak. But through her eyes, you can see what no one else dared to notice. The man who stood at that window, the cigarette, the missing button, the juror's meeting. This is not imagination. This is the truth our system has refused to listen to."
He pointed toward Hana's father. "And this man—this gentle, broken man—was not a murderer. He was a witness to one. A scapegoat for someone who knew how to hide in plain sight."
The prosecutor rolled his eyes. "Beautiful performance, Counselor. But you have no proof that this 'scarred man' even exists outside of this child's fantasies."
Mr. Choi's lips curved into a cold smile. "Then let's make a wager."
He turned toward the judge. "Authorize a search on Juror #6's home and personal belongings. If nothing connects him to this mysterious contact, I'll withdraw the defense entirely. But if you find even a trace of that communication—then we proceed with criminal charges against the true culprit."
The judge hesitated. The courtroom was silent.
Finally, she nodded. "Very well. The search is granted."
That night, Hana sat by her window again, sketchpad on her knees. She stared into the darkness beyond the glass, half-expecting to see the scarred man again.
But this time, there was nothing.
Only rain.
For the first time in days, she allowed herself to breathe.
Downstairs, Mr. Choi received a call. His expression changed as he listened.
When he hung up, his face was white.
Mrs. Park stepped closer. "What is it?
"The police found something," he said quietly. "In the juror's trash. Burnt scraps of paper… and a metal button. Same as the one Hana drew missing from the killer's coat."
He looked up toward Hana's room, his voice breaking slightly. "She was right. All along."
But outside, far beyond the courthouse and the rain, a cigarette flared to life under a broken streetlight.
And a voice—low, amused—whispered into the night.
"She's learning too much."