The docket on my desk stays empty.
Not pending, not delayed. Empty.
A blank sheet mocking me with its whiteness, the only mark a faded coffee ring from yesterday's cold cup. Even the caffeine gave up early.
Probationary Judge Han Seoryun. Sounds official on paper. In reality, I'm the guy they park in the corner so the real judges don't trip over me.
I flip the page anyway. Stupid habit. Still nothing.
Through the thin wall, Judge Min's courtroom hums—voices rising, gavel sharp, clerks darting like they have purpose. Real trials. Real decisions. The kind that change lives, or at least pretend to.
Is that what I wanted? To change lives? Or just…fix one?
My robe felt heavier this morning. Not the fabric, but the lie it represented. I fought through exams, training, everything to wear it. Now it feels like borrowed clothes on a corpse.
"Judge Han."
A clerk leaned in the doorway, arms full of folders. Thick ones. My pulse jumped for a second.
"Yeah?"
"Filing. Basement archives."
Of course.
I nod. Force the polite smile—the one that says, Thanks for the small mercy of not kicking me outright.
He leaves. Smile drops like dead weight.
Basement. Again. Where they send the judges nobody wants visible.
The group hearing is the real knife.
They seat me on the panel like a prop—three seniors, one defect. Microphone too high, chair too low. Deliberate. Every small humiliation calculated.
A lawyer wraps his argument. Silence settles.
"Judge Han," Kang says, not bothering to look. "Thoughts?"
Heads turn. Eyes pin me.
I open my mouth.
Words jam.
Always do when the air thickens.
"I— I th-think the pr-procedure—"
A snort from the gallery. Someone doesn't hide it.
Kang finally glances over. Smile thin as a razor edge.
"Speak up, boy. Or step aside."
Laughter spreads—low, professional, the kind that pretends it's not meant to cut. But it does. Deep.
Ears burn. Nails dig into palms under the bench. Just breathe. Get through it.
"I a-agree with the m-majority," I manage. Voice thin. Small. Pathetic.
Kang nods once. Dismissive.
"Noted."
It's never noted.
They move on. I sit there, invisible again. The stutter isn't new. It started after Father. After the factory bosses beat him down, withheld pay, ignored the cracks in the machines. He sued. Judges took envelopes under the table. Case gone. Hope gone. Rope in the garage.
I swore I'd fix it. Become the judge who listens. Who doesn't sell out. A naive promise to a dead man.
Instead, I'm the joke they trot out to remind everyone what happens without connections.
—
Home reeks of fried oil and bleach.
Mother at the sink, scrubbing the same pan for the third time tonight. Hands raw, cracked from double shifts. She doesn't pause when the door clicks. She works too hard. All for us.
"You eat?" she asks.
"Earlier."
It was a Lie, and she knows. Lets it slide. Because, it easier for both of us.
Sori bursts in, backpack slamming the couch like punctuation.
"They said you cried today."
I close my eyes. I know what she will say.
"They said you begged Kang for a case like a dog." Her voice cracks—anger, protection, exhaustion all tangled. Seventeen, but already carrying too much. "Asked if the court hires stutterers for comic relief now."
Mother finally turns around.
"Sori."
"What? It's true." She stares at me. "They're assholes."
I just nod. Easier than words.
Later, alone in my room, robe folded like surrender on the bed. Phone buzzes—court memos, alerts. None with my name attached to anything that matters.
I rub my face until it hurts.
This is temporary, I tell myself. One chance. That's all I need.
I tell myself a lot of lies these days.
Then it comes.
Not loud. Not some dramatic echo.
Just a word, breathed soft against the back of my skull.
[ Concealed. ]
I freeze.
What the hell was that?
Room empty. Door locked. Phone dark.
I mutter, "I need sleep."
Burnout does that. Tricks the mind. Panic dresses up as voices. I've read the articles. Lived the nights where anxiety turns every shadow into accusation.
Heart still hammers.
[ Concealed. ]
I stand fast. Room spins. For a second, black spots dance.
Nothing else.
No glow. No explanation.
Just the same crushing quiet. Am I losing it?
Nuh... I really need rest.
—
Next morning, a thin file slaps my desk.
Kang fills the doorway, arms crossed.
"Minor theft. Unwinnable. Defendant's broke, prosecution's stacked. Nobody wants the stink."
He smiles. It's the kind of smile a man gives a dog before he puts it down.
"Handle it." He pauses. "Or don't. Either way, this is your last shot for a while."
He leaves without waiting for a reply.
I stare at the folder.
A name. A date. A case built to fail.
My hands shake—not with fear, but with a sudden, violent hunger.
Finally.
Something to break.
Or something that breaks me.
I don't know which.
But at least it's mine.
~⚖️