#namjooning

Chapter Eight (Final)

The city had gone quiet by the time you slipped into the holding room. The guards outside barely looked at you anymore; after so many visits, you had become as familiar a fixture in this building as the flickering hallway lights.

Namjoon sat on the narrow cot, his shoulders hunched, eyes distant. But when he saw you step inside, something shifted. A softness crossed his face—exhausted, yet unmistakably there.

“You shouldn’t be here this late,” he said, voice low, though you could tell the words weren’t meant to send you away.

“And miss my chance to annoy you before tomorrow?” you teased, sinking into the chair opposite him. “Not a chance.”

For the first time that night, he smiled. It was small, tired, but it broke the heaviness around you.

Tomorrow hung between you like a storm. The final trial. The moment that would decide if all the nights spent piecing broken truths together meant something, or if Seungho’s shadow would crush everything.

But for now—for this one night—you refused to talk about courtrooms and corruption.

“Tell me something,” you said softly. “When this is over—when you walk out of here—what’s the first thing you want to do?”

Namjoon tilted his head back against the wall, eyes narrowing as if searching through forgotten drawers of his mind. “Something ordinary. Something boring.”

“Like?”

He smiled again, more fully this time. “Buy a book without checking the time. Sit in a café and drink coffee until it’s cold. Walk outside without someone watching me.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced your own smile. “That’s it? No grand adventure? No life-altering quest?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Just… life. Just the pieces I never realized I could lose.”

You leaned forward, resting your arms against your knees. “When you get out, I’ll hold you to it. Coffee until it’s cold. Maybe even two cups.”

His gaze softened. “I owe you more than coffee.”

“No,” you interrupted quickly. “Don’t you dare start with that. You don’t owe me anything.”

Namjoon laughed quietly. “You’ve risked your life for me. You’ve stood in places no one else dared to stand. How do I not owe you?”

You reached across the small space, your hand brushing his arm. “Then fine. You owe me one thing.”

He raised a brow. “What?”

“Lunch.”

Namjoon blinked before a warm, incredulous laugh broke from his chest. “Lunch?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, though your lips curved. “That’s all. One meal where you’re free, sitting across from me, not thinking about trials or evidence or how the world is falling apart. Just lunch.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, Namjoon reached forward and pulled you into him. It wasn’t hurried or desperate—the kind of embrace that carried more words than either of you could speak. His arms were warm, heavy with gratitude, with the weight of all the days he’d endured, and the fragile hope of tomorrow.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your shoulder. “For not giving up on me.”

You closed your eyes, holding him tighter. “Just promise me you’ll walk back into your life again. That’s all I want.”

While you carved that small pocket of comfort with Namjoon, across the city another storm was gathering.

Seokjin stood outside his father’s office, staring at the double doors. His hands trembled—not with fear, but with anger sharpened by years of silence. He pushed the doors open, and the sight of Kim Seungho sitting behind his polished desk made the air in his chest turn heavy.

“You came back,” Seungho said, leaning back in his chair. His voice carried no welcome, only mockery. “My stray son, the shame I could never scrub clean.”

“Don’t call me that.” Seokjin’s voice was steady, though his knuckles whitened at his sides.

“Why not? It’s the truth. The son of a mistress doesn’t come into a house demanding to be heard. You have no place at this table. No right to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.” Seungho’s smile was thin and cruel. “All you’ve ever been is an inconvenience I allowed to exist.”

The words cut, but Seokjin did not flinch. He stepped forward, his shadow stretching across the desk. “I didn’t come here to beg for a place. I came to tell you to stop. To end this before you drag the entire country into the fire with you.”

Seungho scoffed. “You think you can lecture me? You, who was never meant to carry my name? You should be grateful I haven’t erased you completely. Walk out that door, and I will. You’ll cease to exist in my world.”

For a moment, silence held them, father and son—two mirrors reflecting only the fractures in their bloodline.

Then Seokjin leaned closer, his eyes fierce, voice low and unwavering. “Erase me if you want. Forget I exist. But remember this: every empire rots from within. And no amount of money, no number of judges or bought men, will protect a tyrant forever. You can bury truth, but it grows back like roots under stone. And when it cracks through, it will swallow you whole.”

Seungho’s expression flickered, just for a second—but Seokjin saw it.

He straightened, jaw tight. “You call me your shame. Fine. I’d rather be your shame than the kind of man you are.”

Without waiting for permission, Seokjin turned and walked out. The door closed behind him with a quiet thud, but the words he left behind lingered like smoke—refusing to vanish.

That night, while Namjoon held hope for freedom and Seokjin stood tall against the father who had cast him aside, the city seemed to hold its breath. Tomorrow, the final trial would begin. Tomorrow, the truth you had stitched together would finally be set against the lies built to destroy it.

And somewhere in the dark, Seungho sharpened his knives, waiting for the chance to cut it all down.

The courthouse steps were a battlefield long before you ever stepped inside. Reporters lined both sides of the stone path, their cameras clicking in rapid fire like artillery. Microphones thrust forward, their questions rising in a desperate chorus.

“Do you believe Namjoon will walk free after the trial?”

“Is Councilman Kim Seungho implicated?”

“Will there be indictments beyond this trial?”

You kept your head forward, ignoring the storm of flashing lights. The only sound that mattered was the echo of your heels against the marble floor as you entered the building. Today was not for spectacle. Today was for war.

Inside the courtroom, the air was thick with heat and whispers. Journalists pressed in the gallery, jurors stiffened in their seats, and the judge’s gavel brought silence sharp enough to cut through glass.

“The defense may proceed,” the judge announced.

You rose, palms steady though your pulse raced beneath your ribs. In front of you sat the jury—twelve faces that had watched this case unfold, twelve lives that would decide Namjoon’s fate. Behind you sat Namjoon himself, and though he had mastered composure all these weeks, today his eyes followed your every move, every word, like his life depended on it.

Because it did.

You began with calm precision.

“For weeks, the prosecution has painted my client as a man with motive, opportunity, and proof. They have shown you edited fragments of his life, images designed to look damning, and reports that seemed irrefutable. But truth has a way of surviving, even in the hands of those who try to bury it.”

You turned, holding a folder in your hand. Its weight was heavier than paper.

“Today, we present evidence that not only exonerates Kim Namjoon—but reveals the machinery behind the lies told to frame him.”

The prosecution lawyer, a sharp-jawed man with eyes like glass, rose instantly. “Objection, Your Honor. The defense is attempting to grandstand before the jury—”

“Overruled,” the judge said, firm. “Proceed.”

You opened the folder, laying out the first set of documents. “These are financial records belonging to Councilman Kim Seungho. Offshore accounts routed through shell corporations. Payments made not only to the lead investigator of this case, but also to multiple intermediaries who laundered those funds. These transfers coincide exactly with the weeks leading up to and following Han Jisoo’s death.”

Gasps rippled through the courtroom. The prosecution scrambled to rise again.

“Objection! These documents are unverified, inadmissible hearsay unless the defense can provide a source.”

You didn’t flinch. “They are verified, Your Honor. This court has already received certified stamps from two international banks who confirmed the account holdings. The documents were provided to us through a protected source inside the financial sector—an individual who risked their life to ensure the truth came to light.”

The judge looked down at the papers, brow furrowed. “Objection overruled.”

The prosecution lawyer’s lips tightened into a thin smile, but his eyes flickered. He hadn’t expected this.

You didn’t stop. You walked forward, slow, every step deliberate, your voice strong enough to fill the chamber.

“Why is this relevant?” you asked the jury. “Because these accounts are the arteries of corruption. Through them, payments flowed to silence voices, to plant evidence, to orchestrate a murder and then frame my client.Kim Namjoon was seen at Han Jisoo’s home, yes. That much is true. But he left. Hours later, money exchanged hands—and the inspector assigned to the case ensured that all trails pointed back to Namjoon.”

The prosecution lawyer rose again, sharp like a blade. “Circumstantial! At best, these show Councilman Kim’s misconduct, not that the defendant is innocent.”

You turned to him, steady. “If Councilman Kim’s payments are tied directly to the lead investigator, and if those payments began only after Namjoon’s visit to Han Jisoo, then the true question is not whether Namjoon is guilty—but why a politician would pay millions to secure a conviction against a man with no proven motive. What was he so desperate to bury?”

The jury shifted. Doubt crept in. You could see it—the tilt of heads, the narrowing of eyes.

But the prosecution wasn’t done.

They leaned on the witness stand, voice rising. “Even with these theatrics, the evidence against Namjoon remains. His fingerprints were in the house. The CCTV captured him. Nothing changes that.”

Namjoon tensed behind you, but you lifted a hand subtly, calming him before he could speak. Then you turned back, your voice sharp with precision.

“No one has denied that my client was there. He told this court himself. But fingerprints and footage only tell you that he visited. They do not tell you who ended Han Jisoo’s life. That is where your case collapses.”

You flipped to another photograph—this one of tampered CCTV timestamps.

“These feeds, which we obtained from the original hosting company, were altered. The prosecution has presented a version where the timeline is compressed to suggest Kim Namjoon’s presence overlapped with the murder itself. But in truth—” you pointed to the real timestamps “—he was gone hours before. The man who entered after him was not Kim Namjoon. It was the inspector you trusted to run this investigation.”

The room erupted. Murmurs surged, cameras clicked. The prosecution lawyer shot to his feet, face flushed.

“Objection! The defense cannot accuse an officer of the law without direct testimony—”

“Then call him,” you snapped, cutting through the air. “Call him to this stand. Let him explain the payments in his account. Let him explain the footage he altered. Let him tell the jury why the truth of this case has been poisoned.”

The judge slammed the gavel. “Order! Order in the court!”

Namjoon stared at you from the defense bench, his chest rising fast, his eyes wide with something between shock and awe. For weeks, he had carried the weight of guilt by proximity, the fear that no matter how eloquent his defense, the system would crush him. But now, as you stood unshaken against the storm, he saw it—the cracks forming in the wall built against him.

When you glanced back, just once, he mouthed the words silently. Thank you.

But even as you held the courtroom, you felt it—the unseen eyes watching. Somewhere in the gallery, one of Seungho’s men leaned back, his hand in his pocket, already texting word for word what you’d revealed. The Councilman would know before you left this building.

And when a man like Kim Seungho knew he was bleeding, he didn’t retreat. He struck.

The gavel fell, and silence followed, broken only by the rustle of papers and the faint scratching of a journalist’s pen. The trial had reached its sharpest edge. Your evidence had carved deep into the heart of Kim Seungho’s empire, but his lawyer, a seasoned man with silver hair and eyes sharp as glass, rose with a practiced confidence.

“Your Honor,” he began, voice steady, almost soothing in its cadence, “the documents presented today may appear damning. But appearance, as this court well knows, can be deceiving.”

You straightened, spine tense.

“These so-called financial records—” he lifted a stack of copies, tapping them against the podium “—lack verifiable origin. They could have been tampered with, manufactured by interested parties. None of this establishes a direct link to the case of my client, Mr. Kim Namjoon. We are chasing shadows, Your Honor. Nothing more.”

The words slid like oil across the room. A murmur rippled among the gallery. Namjoon, seated beside you, leaned forward, jaw set, eyes searching yours. You felt the pressure on your chest, the weight of a dozen gazes waiting for you to answer.

But before you could rise, before you could steady your own trembling, a voice cut through the chamber.

“I can.”

Every head turned.

Kim Seokjin stood from the benches, a figure in a dark suit that seemed too quiet for the storm he carried within. His face, serene and unreadable, drew every eye to him. The lawyer faltered mid-sentence. The judge’s gavel struck once.

“State your identity.”

Seokjin stepped forward. “My name is Kim Seokjin. Son of Kim Seungho.”

Gasps erupted. Cameras clicked like machine gun fire. Even you felt your own pulse thunder as if the air had been punched from the room. Namjoon’s eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his features.

Seokjin’s voice did not waver. “I am prepared to testify against my father. Against his corruption, his crimes, and his role in the murder of Han Jisoo.”

The opposing lawyer snapped, “Objection! This is a disruption, a spectacle—”

But the judge raised a hand. “Objection overruled. Continue, Mr. Kim.”

Seokjin’s gaze lifted to the bench, then swept over the crowd, steady and unyielding. “My father has spent decades building walls of power and fear. I have lived in their shadows. He may deny me as the son of a mistress, but I know the machinery of his empire better than most. And I will not let him bury another innocent under its weight.”

He opened a folder he had carried in quietly, unnoticed until now. Thick, damning pages slid into the light. “Here are records of fraudulent accounts. Shell companies. Hidden transfers. They tie directly back to Kim Seungho and his associates—including the lead investigator who sabotaged this very case.”

You leaned forward, astonishment crashing into you. These were more than what your team had risked nights gathering—this was the spine of Seungho’s empire laid bare.

The opposing lawyer rose again, desperation seeping into his polished tone. “Your Honor, this is hearsay! This witness has personal vendettas—”

But Seokjin cut him short, his voice sharp as broken glass. “The truth doesn’t care for vendettas. It only cares for light. My father thrives in darkness, but I will not stand in it anymore.”

The gallery roared, a tide of voices—some in shock, some in approval, others still trying to deny what they were seeing unfold.

Namjoon whispered beside you, almost to himself, “He… he gave up everything.”

You couldn’t tear your gaze away from Seokjin. His hands trembled only slightly as he handed the documents forward, but his words carried a weight that pressed into every corner of the room.

“I testify,” he said, voice breaking then steadying again, “that Kim Seungho ordered the silencing of Han Jisoo. I testify that his accounts are riddled with the blood of those who tried to oppose him. And I testify not as his son—but as a citizen who refuses to let a murderer hide behind his power any longer.”

The judge studied him, then glanced toward the opposing lawyer, whose silence had grown louder than his protests. The air was heavy, dense with history unraveling.

And in that suspended moment, when the court seemed to hold its breath, you realized something you hadn’t expected—Seokjin had cut his own chains.

The trial was no longer just about Namjoon. It was about truth, about how much one person could endure before deciding to tear down the very blood that had bound them.

You felt your throat tighten, emotion swelling like a tide you could no longer hold back.

For the first time, the shadow of Kim Seungho trembled.

The courthouse steps had become a battlefield of noise. Reporters crowded the marble stairs, cameras flashing like lightning in a summer storm. Their voices merged into a single roar—questions hurled, names shouted, microphones pushed forward in a frantic attempt to catch even a fragment of truth.

“Is it true Kim Seokjin is Seungho’s son?”

“Will the court recognize his testimony?”

“Does this mean Namjoon is free?”

Police officers struggled to keep the barricades intact as protestors pressed against them. Some carried signs calling for Seungho’s arrest, others for Namjoon’s release. A line of vans filled with broadcast crews clogged the street, satellite dishes rising like iron flowers toward the gray sky.

Inside the courthouse, you stood in the dim hallway just beyond the courtroom doors, your heart still pounding from the testimony. The echo of Seokjin’s voice had not left you—it hung heavy in your ears, a raw truth that carried both salvation and a death sentence.

Namjoon leaned against the wall, hands clasped together, as though anchoring himself in this fragile moment. For the first time in weeks, you saw something flicker in his expression that had almost vanished entirely: hope.

He turned to you, voice low and steady. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think anyone could break him. But Seokjin… he just did what no one else dared.”

You studied him, his tired eyes, the lines etched into his face from nights of fear and endless strategy. You wanted to tell him that hope was dangerous, that victory was not yet written, but instead, you let yourself soften.

“He gave you back your chance,” you said quietly. “Now it’s up to us to protect it.”

Before Namjoon could answer, Jimin hurried down the hallway, a phone clutched in his hand, his usual calm shaken. Taehyung followed close behind, face grim.

“They know,” Jimin said. “Seungho’s men. The moment Jin stood, half the city lit up with alerts. He’s marked now. They’ll come after him.”

Namjoon’s shoulders tensed. “Where is he?”

Yoongi, pale but steady, spoke from his seat nearby. “They’re moving him through a side exit with security, but security won’t hold against Seungho if he wants blood. He’ll erase his own son before he lets him destroy the empire he built.”

Silence wrapped around the group, heavy and suffocating. You felt the truth of Yoongi’s words in your bones. Seokjin had lit a fire, and now the flames were crawling toward him.

Namjoon straightened, shaking his head. “He shouldn’t have done this for me.”

You stepped closer, your voice firm. “He didn’t do it for you. He did it because someone had to.”

Namjoon looked at you then, eyes searching. For a moment, you thought he might collapse under the weight of gratitude and guilt battling inside him. Instead, he exhaled, steadying himself. “Then we can’t let him face the price alone.”

Outside, the noise doubled. Shouts turned into chants, sirens wailed as convoys pushed through the chaos. The city was splitting open, a wound exposed for everyone to see.

Yoongi’s voice, hoarse but certain, broke the moment. “Seungho is cornered. A cornered man is more dangerous than ever.” He met your eyes. “Protect your people. Don’t underestimate what he’ll do next.”

Jungkook’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. His jaw clenched. “He’s already moving. One of Seungho’s drivers was spotted leaving the compound with a convoy. It’s not a retreat. It’s a hunt.”

Your pulse quickened. You could almost feel the net tightening.

Namjoon pressed a hand to your shoulder, grounding himself as much as grounding you. “You said once that after this trial, we’d sit somewhere quiet. Have lunch. Pretend the world isn’t burning.” His voice cracked, and then steadied. “Don’t you dare let that become a lie.”

You managed a small, weary smile. “Then stay alive long enough to owe me that lunch.”

The doors of the courtroom burst open again, and reporters surged forward. The judge had called recess, the verdict delayed, the weight of Seokjin’s testimony still being measured against the law’s rigid scales. But outside, the law meant nothing compared to Seungho’s fury.

From across the room, you caught sight of Seokjin once more, surrounded by officers as they guided him through a side passage. His expression was unreadable, but his steps were steady. He had torn his father’s mask in front of the entire nation. And now, the man who raised him had vowed to erase him.

The storm had broken, and no one would walk out untouched.

The courthouse was emptying when you finally slipped into Namjoon’s waiting room. The city outside still hummed with noise, cameras flashing, reporters chasing scraps of quotes—but here, for a moment, it was just the two of you.

Namjoon looked exhausted, his tie loosened, his shoulders slumped like the weight of the day had finally pressed through the armor he always carried. When his eyes met yours, the sharpness softened, and for once, he didn’t speak in careful logic.

“Thank you,” he said simply, his voice low but heavy. “I don’t know what kind of storm you had to walk through to pull all of that together today, but… you saved me.”

You managed a tired smile. “This isn’t finished yet.”

“I know.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying you like memorizing your face was more urgent than the trial. “But promise me something. Promise me you’ll be safe. Whatever happens tomorrow, don’t put yourself in Seungho’s path alone.”

You wanted to laugh, to remind him you hadn’t survived this far by accident. But the way his voice broke on that last word—safe—anchored your answer. You nodded. “I promise.”

For a moment, the silence between you was thick with unspoken truths. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach for yours but didn’t. The walls of the room felt too small, the air too tight.

Across the city, in a mansion walled off from the chaos, Kim Seungho was far from slumped. He sat at the head of a long polished table, the lead investigator stiff beside him. His glass of whiskey glowed amber under the chandelier, untouched, as though even the liquor knew it wasn’t worthy of being swallowed by him.

The investigator leaned close, lowering his voice. “They’ve stacked more evidence against us. What’s the next move?”

Seungho’s lips curled—not in fear, not even in irritation, but in something colder. “The next move is the same as it has always been. We wait. Tomorrow, I want to be in that courtroom. I want to see her face. I want to see Namjoon break. Their tears will be my verdict.”

“But sir—”

“Do you forget who I am?” Seungho cut him off, his voice smooth but laced with fire. “I am the law. Judges bend when I tell them to. Prosecutors turn their eyes away when I open my hand. You think a few documents will undo decades of power? Wealth is the only gavel that matters. I am untouchable.”

He laughed softly, as though daring the world to contradict him.

Yet outside his iron gates, the world was already shouting back.

The protests had started with a handful of voices. Students with handmade signs, mothers clutching their children, men in work clothes holding banners scrawled in paint. By nightfall, it had grown into a sea. Hundreds, then thousands pressed against the barriers, their chants swelling like waves. “Corrupt!” they roared. “Justice for Jisoo! Justice for all!”

Reporters lined the streets, their cameras capturing every flicker of outrage, every tear-stained face. The glow of floodlights turned the mansion into a stage, and Seungho, for the first time in his life, was not the director of the play.

Inside, he ignored the noise. Or pretended to. But the muffled thunder of voices seeped through even the thickest glass, and his fingers tightened around the untouched glass of whiskey.

The investigator glanced toward the window, sweat gathering at his temple. “They’re not going away. This is—”

“They are dogs,” Seungho snapped. “Barking until someone feeds them. Tomorrow, they will see that nothing changes. Tomorrow, they will remember who owns this country.”

But the night was already betraying him. His name was being torn from stone and paper, rewritten on cardboard signs and inked across phone screens. People who had once bowed to him now cursed his name under neon lights.

Back at your safehouse, you scrolled through the flood of live broadcasts. Yoongi leaned against the wall, watching the protests with something you hadn’t seen in his eyes since the beginning: hope.

“They’re not afraid anymore,” he whispered.

And for the first time, you believed it too.

The courthouse was a fortress that morning.

Barricades lined the streets. Officers in riot gear stood shoulder to shoulder as the sea of people pressed against the barriers, their chants rolling through the air like thunder. Reporters shouted into microphones, cameras flashing so fast they lit the gray morning like lightning.

Inside, the courtroom was no calmer. The benches overflowed with press, law students, victims’ families, and the curious who wanted to witness history. The wooden panels of the room seemed to strain beneath the weight of expectation.

Namjoon sat at the defendant’s table, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed forward. Across from him, Seungho entered in a suit as sharp as a blade, chin high, smirk playing at his lips as though he had come not to defend but to conquer. His presence pulled the air taut, the silence broken only by the scrape of his chair as he sat down.

The judge struck the gavel once. “We will hear the closing testimonies and arguments. Mr. Kim Seungho has requested to speak for himself. Proceed.”

Seungho rose. He carried himself like a king, every step deliberate, every pause heavy. Facing the court, he bowed faintly to the judge, then turned to the gallery.

“I stand before you accused of unthinkable crimes,” he began, voice deep, commanding. “But accusations are not truths. I have spent my life building companies, providing jobs, strengthening this nation’s economy. Does that sound like the work of a murderer? Does that sound like corruption?” He let his gaze sweep over the room, as if daring anyone to say yes. “The so-called evidence against me is built on shadows. Documents with no source, testimonies from those with an agenda. I did not order the death of Han Jisoo. I did not siphon funds. I am guilty only of being powerful enough to make enemies.”

A murmur ran through the courtroom, reporters scribbling furiously.

You stood slowly, every movement steady. “Your honor, may I respond?”

The judge nodded.

You stepped forward, your heels echoing against the wooden floor, your papers clutched but forgotten, because you no longer needed them. Every word was carved into memory.

“Mr. Kim Seungho,” you began, your voice calm, steady. “You claim you are guilty only of being powerful enough to make enemies. But power does not erase accountability. It magnifies it.” You held up a thick folder, documents spilling like a weight too heavy to contain. “Here we have transfers from offshore accounts. Not from rumor. Not from whispers. These were provided by insiders—people who risked everything to put this in our hands. Every number points back to you.”

Seungho’s smirk deepened. “Numbers can be forged.”

“Then explain this,” you said, sliding a photograph across the table to the judge. “This is your signature on an authorization slip approving the withdrawal of five million won—one day before Han Jisoo was killed. That money was traced to an unregistered account used to pay an unknown ‘contractor.’ Shall we pretend this, too, is a coincidence?”

The gallery shifted uneasily. Even the judge leaned closer.

Seungho straightened, his voice smooth. “Business requires many transactions. I cannot be expected to recall every signature, every movement of funds.”

You walked closer, your eyes fixed on him. “But you remember Han Jisoo, don’t you? You remember visiting him hours before his murder.”

The room stilled. Namjoon’s hand clenched the edge of the table.

Seungho’s lips twitched. “I visit many colleagues. Is it a crime to share a drink?”

You let the silence stretch, then spoke low, each word slicing the air. “It becomes a crime when the man you visit turns up dead. When the accounts you sign funnel money to those who erase him. When your allies scramble to cover your tracks. Han Jisoo had evidence that threatened your empire. That is why you silenced him.”

“No,” Seungho snapped, louder now. “I had no reason to harm him!”

“Then why,” you pressed, stepping closer, “did you instruct the lead investigator to bury Jisoo’s files? Why did you call him at two in the morning, demanding updates the night Jisoo was killed? Why did your private car leave tire marks outside Jisoo’s street at dawn?”

The courtroom erupted in whispers.

The lead investigator paled visibly. Seungho turned on him for half a second, then back to you. His composure cracked—only a flicker, but enough.

You seized it. “You came here today confident, because you believed wealth could silence truth. But truth doesn’t bend. It breaks chains. Look outside.” You gestured toward the high windows, where faint echoes of protest filtered through. “The people you dismissed as dogs are demanding justice. They have seen your empire for what it is—built not on strength, but on fear. And fear collapses when faced with courage.”

The judge banged the gavel. “Order!”

Seungho’s jaw clenched. “You think a mob outside changes the law? You think shouting louder makes lies true?”

“I think,” you said softly, so that the silence carried your words farther than shouting ever could, “that when you stand this defensive, it is because you recognize every accusation is cutting too close to the truth. And I think Han Jisoo’s blood has stained your hands so deeply that no amount of wealth can wash it away.”

For the first time, Seungho faltered. The mask slipped. His voice rose, ragged now. “Do you understand who I am? I built this city!”

You met his fury with calm steel. “And now you will watch it rise without you.”

The gavel struck again. The judge’s voice boomed over the chaos. “This court will recess briefly before delivering the final verdict.”

Gasps filled the room. Reporters scrambled out the doors, racing to relay every word.

Namjoon turned to you, his eyes wide—not with fear, but with something like awe. “You broke him,” he whispered.

But your chest was tight. Because breaking Seungho in the courtroom was one thing. Surviving what came after was another.

Outside, the chants grew louder, drums pounding, voices rising like a storm.

The courtroom smelled of polished oak and sweat. Hours of testimony, days of battles, weeks of sleepless nights had all come to rest here—on the shoulders of a single gavel, on the lips of a single judge.

When the doors opened, the judge entered with a solemnity that bent the room to silence. Even the hum of cameras paused. The gallery seemed to hold its collective breath, a living organism waiting to know if justice would bloom or wither.

Outside, the chaos swelled. You could hear it faintly through the tall windows: drums pounding, voices chanting, the strained bark of police orders. Barricades rattled as the crowd pressed closer. The courthouse was not just a chamber of law today—it was the center of a city’s storm.

Namjoon sat beside you, pale but steady. His fingers tapped lightly against the wooden table, not in impatience, but to ground himself. When you glanced at him, he gave you a small smile—fragile, hopeful, the kind of smile someone gives when they have nothing left but trust in you.

The judge cleared his throat, his robe swaying slightly as he shifted. “This court has examined the testimonies, reviewed the evidence, and considered the arguments presented. Today, we deliver the verdict in the case of Kim Namjoon.”

The gallery tensed. Reporters leaned so far forward their pens hovered over notepads. The entire room seemed to shrink, collapsing inward around the bench.

The judge’s voice dropped into a grave rhythm. “The defense has presented substantial evidence suggesting corruption, obstruction of justice, and the orchestration of murder by external parties—namely, Kim Seungho. The prosecution has attempted to discredit these claims, but the evidence, once weighed, is undeniable.”

A ripple swept the crowd. Seungho’s lawyer shifted uncomfortably, whispering furiously into his ear. But Seungho only stared ahead, his jaw locked, a faint curve of disdain on his lips, as though the judge’s words were gnats he could swat away.

The judge continued. “The financial records, corroborated testimony, and the account of Mr. Kim Seokjin—together they form a consistent picture of deliberate manipulation to frame Mr. Kim Namjoon for the murder of Han Jisoo.”

A pause. The room leaned closer. Namjoon closed his eyes.

The gavel hovered above the bench.

“This court finds Kim Namjoon—”

The words hung like a blade. Even the crowd outside seemed to hush, the chants collapsing into a vacuum.

“Not guilty.”

The gavel struck.

The gallery erupted. His mother and Taehyung cried out in relief. Reporters rushed toward the exit to be the first to shout it to the waiting world. Namjoon turned to you slowly, disbelief and hope breaking across his face in one trembling moment. His hand found yours under the table.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice raw, thick with tears he was fighting to hold back. “You gave me back my life.”

But the storm was not finished.

Because across the courtroom, Seungho stood. He moved with a calmness that unsettled the room more than any outburst. He straightened his suit, brushed invisible dust from his sleeves, and smiled—not at the judge, not at his lawyer, but at you.

“This isn’t over,” he murmured, low enough that only you could catch it. His smile was the kind that didn’t need volume to wound.

The bailiff called for order, trying to push back the surge of bodies, but the air had already shifted. Justice had been declared, yet no one felt safe.

Outside, the chants grew deafening, shaking the very walls. Protesters clashed with police lines, banners flying, fists raised. Camera crews shouted over each other as the news spread like wildfire.

Namjoon gripped your hand tighter. “Promise me,” he said, leaning closer, urgency burning in his eyes. “Promise me you’ll be careful now. He won’t forgive this. He’ll come for you.”

You swallowed hard, every instinct screaming that he was right. Still, you forced a smile for him. “I promise. And you owe me lunch, remember?”

He let out a shaky laugh, one that sounded like a man who hadn’t laughed in years.

But across the room, Seungho walked out through the side exit, flanked by his allies, his steps unhurried. He carried himself as if nothing had touched him, as if the law had failed to clip his wings.

The courthouse doors opened into fire.

Not flames, but people. Their voices roared like thunder, banners thrashing above the sea of heads. Police lines bent and trembled beneath the sheer weight of fury. Journalists clung to their cameras, pushed back and forth by the tide. Every face in that storm seemed lit from within, burning with something bigger than outrage: hunger for change.

Inside, the verdict still echoed like a tolling bell—not guilty. But outside, it was the sound of a wall cracking.

You moved carefully, Namjoon close by your side, your fingers brushing his sleeve as though anchoring him in this maelstrom. He looked dazed, his freedom still tasting like disbelief. The chants swallowed his silence, but when he turned to you, there was gratitude in his eyes so pure it ached.

“I never thought I’d see the sky again without bars between us,” he said softly. His voice trembled, not from fear, but from the fragile weight of hope rediscovered.

You wanted to answer, but then the noise shifted. A new ripple tore through the crowd—gasps, shouts, camera flashes exploding like lightning.

Kim Seungho was trying to leave.

His black sedan pushed forward slowly, surrounded by bodyguards in tailored suits, their hands firm at their sides. But this time the people did not part for him. They surged closer, slamming their fists on the windows, screaming his name not with reverence, but venom.

“Thief!”

“Murderer!”

“Resign!”

The car rocked. Glass cracked. One of the guards shoved back violently, sparking a fresh wave of chaos.

And then—sirens. Blue and red sliced through the gray afternoon. Police convoys swarmed in, not to shield him, but to stop him.

An officer stepped into view, megaphone in hand, voice sharp and unflinching:

“Kim Seungho. You are under arrest for the murder of Han Jisoo, obstruction of justice, and multiple counts of corruption.”

The world seemed to freeze.

Seungho stepped out of the car himself, straightening his cufflinks with unhurried precision, his face carved into a mask of disdain. “Do you even know who I am?” he said, his voice carrying over the roar of the crowd.

The officer did not flinch. He read the warrant aloud, clear and final. Cameras surged forward, capturing every second, their flashes like a firing squad of light.

When the cuffs clicked around his wrists, the city erupted. The chants that followed were no longer just anger—they were triumph, grief, catharsis all at once. Tears streamed down cheeks, fists rose higher. Strangers held one another in the crush of the square.

And beside him, the lead investigator—the man who once sneered at your questions in court—was dragged out in disgrace. His protests were drowned beneath jeers, his face pale, lips quivering as if he’d never imagined this moment could exist.

Namjoon turned, his hand brushing yours again. “You did this,” he whispered, almost in awe. “You fought him where no one else dared.”

You shook your head. “We did. All of us. Yoongi, Jimin, Taehyung, Jungkook, Hobi, Seokjin…” His name lingered, heavy and bittersweet, the sacrifice still raw in your chest.

The crowd pressed tighter, but the sight of Seungho being pushed into the back of a police van held them still. For the first time in years, perhaps in decades, the people saw him not as untouchable, but as mortal. His wealth could not shield him, his power could not erase his crimes.

He caught your gaze in the chaos, his eyes like sharpened glass. He did not shout. He only smiled, small and cold, the kind of smile that promised there were more battles ahead. Even in chains, he was dangerous.

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself. “It’s not over,” you said quietly to Namjoon, though your words were nearly lost beneath the chants.

“I know,” he answered. His eyes lifted to the crowd. “But maybe it’s the beginning.”

Reporters surged toward you then, microphones thrust forward, questions like arrows:

“How did you expose his accounts?”

“Were you threatened?”

“Is Namjoon truly innocent, or just protected?”

You raised your chin, letting your silence speak. Some truths would come later. For now, what mattered was the image carried through every camera lens: Seungho’s downfall, the people rising, and a man once caged walking freely beside you.

The city was different now.

Not quieter, not louder — just… changed. The headlines had shifted from courtroom sketches and nightly trial updates to protests against corruption that still flared in scattered corners. The streets carried posters, half-torn and rain-wrinkled, bearing Seungho’s face. His name was now shorthand for everything the people wanted to purge from their government.

And Namjoon, once the accused, once the man standing on the edge of ruin, was walking up the courthouse steps again. This time not to defend himself, but to reclaim who he was.

You walked beside him, your hand brushing against the worn leather of the folder he carried. It wasn’t evidence this time. It was his past — transcripts of his old cases, testimonials from colleagues who had come to believe in his innocence, and letters from the very people who once doubted him.

“You’re quiet,” you said, tilting your head to study him.

“I don’t want to think too far ahead,” Namjoon replied, his voice low but steady. “If I picture myself back in a courtroom… if I let myself believe too much… it will hurt more if they say no.”

You paused on the steps, watching him. “You’ll get it back. Not because the system is fair — but because you’ve earned it. And because too many of us will stand in that room if anyone dares to deny you.”

A small, almost invisible smile flickered at the corner of his lips. “You always talk like you’re testifying.”

“Maybe I’m practicing,” you teased, though your chest tightened.

Inside, the reinstatement hearing had none of the chaos of the trial. The walls didn’t vibrate with protest chants. The press wasn’t jammed against the doors. Instead, it felt smaller, almost suffocating in its stillness. A panel of three judges sat at the bench, their robes unwrinkled, their expressions unreadable.

Yoongi was there, leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Jungkook sat straight in his chair, too tense for someone his age, his loyalty burning in the way he refused to look anywhere but Namjoon. ers.

You looked at them one by one. These men weren’t just allies anymore. They were family forged in fire.

The presiding judge cleared his throat. “Kim Namjoon. This hearing concerns your petition for reinstatement to the bar. You were acquitted of the charge of murder. Yet the bar has not only to consider legal guilt, but professional integrity. Why should this panel allow you to return?”

Namjoon stood. His hands trembled once, but then steadied against the wood of the podium. His voice carried the quiet gravity of someone who had been remade by fire.

“I lost everything when I was accused. My reputation, my work, my faith in the very system I believed in. But I stood trial. I placed my life in the hands of this court, and the truth cleared me. The question isn’t only why I should be allowed back. The question is what kind of system we want to uphold. If lawyers who are falsely accused are cast aside forever, then corruption wins by default. I am not asking for sympathy. I am asking for the chance to stand where I belong, in service of justice, and to prove by my actions that the law still matters.”

The room went still. For a moment you thought the air itself held its breath.

The opposing counsel — a gray-haired man assigned by the bar to question Namjoon — leaned forward. His tone was pointed. “But can you guarantee that the stain of this accusation will not color your future cases? The public may see you as compromised.”

Before Namjoon could answer, Yoongi stepped forward, voice sharp. “The public already chose their side. The protests outside Seungho’s house weren’t for Namjoon’s guilt. They were for his freedom. They were for the truth. If you want to argue public trust, look at the streets.”

The judge raised an eyebrow but didn’t silence him. Perhaps they wanted to hear this too.

Namjoon looked down at his hands, then back up at the panel. “I can’t erase the last months. I wouldn’t want to. Because it showed me what justice costs. If you give me back my license, I won’t waste it. I’ll use it for the people who don’t have the power or the voice to fight.”

It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t theatrics. His words landed because they were bare, and they were true.

The panel whispered among themselves, heads bent together. Each second stretched like wire pulled too thin. Jungkook shifted beside you, whispering, “Why are they taking so long?”

“Because they know whatever they decide today will echo,” Seokjin murmured.

At last, the presiding judge lifted his gavel. The sound when it struck the block was not thunderous like during a verdict — it was a softer, sharper note, the kind that carried finality in its precision.

“This panel has reviewed the petition. We acknowledge the acquittal of Kim Namjoon and find no cause to permanently bar him from practice. Effective immediately, his license to practice law is reinstated.”

It wasn’t until you felt Jungkook’s arms crush around your shoulders and Yoongi’s sharp exhale fill the room that you realized you were crying. Namjoon closed his eyes, his hand covering his mouth as if he needed to hold in everything threatening to spill out. Seokjin, with his quiet strength, was the first to step forward and place a hand on Namjoon’s back.

“You’re home,” Seokjin said softly.

Namjoon laughed through the tears, shaking his head. “Home never felt this heavy before.”

You found yourself speaking before you could stop. “Heavy isn’t bad. Heavy means it matters.”

For the first time in months, Namjoon smiled fully. And in that small room, after endless nights of trials and blood and doubt, you all stood together — not as survivors anymore, but as people who had chosen each other against the world.

The evening had the kind of softness that belongs to late spring. The city was alive just outside your window — cars honking, laughter spilling from street corners, neon lights humming against the dusk. But inside your apartment, the air felt different. Warmer. Expectant.

Hoseok was sprawled across your couch, flipping through a playlist he insisted would “set the mood.” He shot you a grin. “Dinner, huh? You sure this isn’t a date?”

You rolled your eyes, tossing a cushion at him. “It’s just a thank you dinner. He promised.”

“People don’t wear that sweater dress for ‘just a thank you,’” Hoseok teased, pointing at the soft cream knit you’d chosen.

You opened your mouth to retort when the doorbell rang. The sound froze you for a moment longer than you wanted to admit. Hoseok smirked knowingly, dragging himself up. “I’ll get it.”

But when you turned, Namjoon was already there. He stood in the doorway with a bottle of wine in hand, his tie loosened, his hair brushed neatly but not too neat — as though he’d tried, but not too hard. His eyes found you instantly, and the corners of his mouth curved upward.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, without hesitation, as if the words had been waiting on his tongue since the moment he left his apartment.

It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t grand, but it made the room tilt slightly around you. Hoseok nearly choked on air, clapping his hands like a schoolboy. “Oh, it is a date!”

Before you could reply, the sound of rapid typing echoed from the dining table. Jimin and Taehyung, hunched over a laptop, barely looked up. Jimin snorted, his voice sing-song. “Hyung, don’t hack her heart too fast. You’re already glitching her system.”

Taehyung smirked, clicking something on the screen. “Yeah, and if you break her firewall, you’ll owe me dinner too.”

Namjoon blinked at the two of them, clearly bewildered. “Are… are they hacking?”

“Yes,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “Apparently ‘for fun.’”

Jimin leaned back, flashing a dimpled grin. “Relax, no laws broken. We’re just… creative.”

Namjoon chuckled, setting the wine on the counter. “Remind me never to give either of you my passwords.”

“Smart man,” Taehyung said, eyes glinting.

Hoseok ushered them with exaggerated dramatics. “Alright, lovebirds need privacy. Out, hackers. Leave them in peace.”

“Lovebirds?” you hissed, glaring at him.

But Jimin and Taehyung were already gathering their things, grinning like devils who had done their job. As they slipped out, Jimin whispered loudly enough for both you and Namjoon to hear, “Don’t burn dinner, only hearts.”

The door shut behind them, leaving silence in their wake.

Namjoon cleared his throat, looking at the set table you’d fussed over all afternoon. The candles were small but steady, their glow catching the stemware. The scent of garlic butter and seared meat lingered, a comfort wrapped in effort.

“This looks…” His voice softened. “It feels like home.”

You busied yourself with the plates to hide the way your chest warmed. “It’s just dinner.”

“Not to me,” he said, so gently you almost missed it.

You both sat. The clatter of silverware was the only sound at first, the quiet weight of unspoken things pressing between you. Namjoon poured the wine, his hands steadier now than they had been at the hearing. You caught the curve of his lips, the way he seemed lighter tonight, freer.

“Three months ago,” he began, swirling the glass, “I thought I’d never step foot in a courtroom again. I thought I’d never get to be who I am. And then you…” He paused, searching your face. “You refused to let me disappear.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” you said softly.

“Don’t I?” His gaze held yours, unflinching. “I owe you more than I can name. You believed when even I couldn’t. You made me fight.”

Your throat tightened. “I only reminded you who you were.”

“And you stayed,” he whispered. “That mattered more than anything.”

The food cooled between you as conversation carried you elsewhere. You spoke of fear — his nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if his name would ever be clean. You spoke of resilience — how you had found your own strength standing beside him. The longer you talked, the smaller the distance between you felt.

At one point, Namjoon laughed, the sound rough but real. “You know, Hoseok might be right.”

“About what?”

“This feels like a date.”

Your eyes flicked to him, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Is it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back, studying you as though memorizing every detail. Then, with quiet certainty, he said, “It is to me.”

The words hung in the air, fragile and infinite. You wanted to reach for them, to tuck them away where nothing could touch them.

Outside, the city kept moving, indifferent to the two of you. But inside your apartment, the world felt paused. A table set for two, laughter lingering in the air, a man who once stood on trial for his life now looking at you as though you were the reason he’d survived.

Dinner had never felt so much like a beginning.

The law firm had always been a place of sharp suits, rushed footsteps, and voices pressed into urgency. But that morning, when you pushed through the glass doors, the atmosphere carried something else — relief.

Namjoon was already there. His posture was familiar yet steadier than you had ever seen it. He stood in the center of the lobby, shaking hands with partners, clerks, and paralegals alike. Laughter rippled through the air, genuine, unrestrained.

“Good to have you back, Namjoon,” one of the senior partners said, clasping his shoulder. “This place has missed your fire.”

Another chimed in. “Clients have been asking for you. They’ll be glad to know you’re home.”

You lingered at the edge for a moment, taking it in. Namjoon — once shackled by suspicion, silenced by fear — now stood surrounded by colleagues who celebrated him not as a man accused, but as the lawyer they had always trusted.

He caught your gaze across the room. The noise around him blurred. His smile softened, becoming something meant only for you.

When the others finally dispersed, you stepped closer. “Congratulations,” you said quietly, though the word felt too small.

Namjoon tilted his head. “For what?”

“For being back where you belong.”

His eyes searched yours, as if he wanted to say more, but he only nodded. “Thank you. For everything.”

The day blurred into routine — papers shuffled, meetings whispered, doors opening and closing with purpose. But when the office lights dimmed and evening painted the city gold, you found yourself walking beside him through the park.

The trees whispered overhead, branches arching like cathedral ceilings. The ground glowed with scattered lamplight, and children’s laughter lingered faintly in the distance. The world felt softer here, untouchable for a moment.

Namjoon kept his hands in his pockets, his stride measured. He wasn’t rushing anywhere, and you found yourself slowing down just to match him.

“You know,” he began, voice low, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough.”

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “You’ve already said that a dozen times.”

“And I’ll say it a dozen more,” he insisted, glancing at you with quiet intensity. “I wouldn’t be here without you. You gave me back my life.”

You laughed softly, trying to diffuse the weight of his words. “Careful, Namjoon. If you keep complimenting me like that, I might start thinking you like me.”

He stopped walking. The park stretched silent around you, a soft hum of crickets threading through the air.

“What if I do?” he asked. No teasing, no hesitation. Just a steady truth laid bare.

The world tilted. The lamplight traced the edge of his jaw, the faint crease of nerves between his brows. His eyes — earnest, vulnerable — searched yours as if bracing for an answer that could undo him.

Your breath stilled. “And what if…” You swallowed, voice softer now, fragile. “What if I feel the same?”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The distance between you wasn’t much, but it felt charged, alive. The air seemed to hold its own breath, waiting.

Namjoon’s lips curved slowly, not quite a smile, more like something unfolding in his chest. “Then I think,” he said, voice steady, “we’ve both been waiting for this longer than we realized.”

The words lingered in the space between you, tentative but real. You didn’t close the distance — not yet. Instead, you walked again, side by side, your shoulders brushing more often than before, silence no longer empty but filled with the promise of something beginning.

Namjoon’s apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn’t empty but warm — the hum of a city outside softened by thick windows, the faint scent of old books and cedar lingering in the air. You had been here before, nights filled with papers scattered across the coffee table, arguments over strategies, exhausted laughter spilling between cups of coffee. But tonight was different.

The storm had passed. For once, the two of you weren’t lawyers or fighters or survivors. Just two people sitting across from each other, a paper bag of takeout between you and a bottle of wine breathing slowly on the table.

Namjoon leaned back on the couch, sleeves rolled up, hair falling slightly into his eyes. He looked more at ease than you’d ever seen him, though something restless lingered in his gaze, like words pressing at the edge of his lips.

“Remind me again,” you teased lightly, setting down your chopsticks, “how this counts as paying me back for that lunch you owed me?”

He smirked. “Lunch turned into dinner. Dinner turned into wine. I’d say I’m overdelivering.”

“You make it sound like a contract.”

“With you,” he said softly, “I’d sign anything.”

The words hung in the air longer than either of you expected. You laughed gently, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, but your heart drummed faster. His gaze lingered, steady, unguarded.

For months now, you had been orbiting each other in this fragile closeness — no label, no definition, just comfort and quiet that felt like something more. But tonight, it was clear the orbit was shifting.

Namjoon poured the wine, sliding a glass toward you. His fingers brushed yours briefly, sending a spark you pretended not to notice. He raised his own glass but didn’t drink, instead watching you carefully.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, voice low, almost careful.

You tilted your head, waiting.

“This—us.” He gestured vaguely between you, then let his hand fall. “I know we haven’t named it. I know we’ve been… circling. But I don’t want to keep pretending I’m content with just being close to you. I want more.”

The air shifted, heavy with truth.

“I want to be with you,” Namjoon continued, the steadiness in his voice undercut by the faint tremor of vulnerability. “Not just as the person who saved me. Not just as a friend who stood by me. I want you — in my life, in all of it. I don’t care if it’s messy. I don’t care if we’re still figuring it out. I just… I want this to be real.”

You set your glass down carefully, your hand trembling just enough to make the wine ripple. His eyes searched yours, waiting, bracing, as if your silence could undo him.

“Namjoon,” you whispered. Your chest ached with how much you’d wanted to hear those words, how long you’d bitten back your own. “I want it too.”

His shoulders released, as though he’d been holding his entire body tense for weeks. You could see it in the way his lips parted slightly, the way relief softened the sharp lines of his face.

“I was scared you didn’t,” he admitted. “Scared that after everything, maybe you’d want distance. A normal life without—”

You reached for his hand before he could finish, fingers sliding against his. “A normal life doesn’t mean a life without you. If anything, you’re the part that makes it feel real.”

For a moment, he simply looked at you, as though memorizing the shape of your words, the truth of them. Then, slowly, carefully, he leaned in.

The kiss was not rushed, not desperate. It was a slow unfolding, a promise spoken without words. His lips brushed yours, tentative, almost reverent, before pressing more firmly, as though sealing something sacred.

The world outside blurred. The protests, the chaos, the shadows of danger — all of it fell away. In this moment, there was only the taste of wine, the warmth of his hand against your cheek, and the quiet realization that after everything, you had found not just justice, but something worth holding onto.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath unsteady with something close to wonder.

“So,” you murmured, smiling softly, “was this part of the dinner plan?”

He chuckled, the sound low, tender. “No. But it’s the only part I’ll remember.”

You sat there, hand still clasped in his, the night stretching ahead like something unwritten. For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like a battlefield. It felt like possibility.

The restaurant buzzed with the quiet hum of conversations and the clinking of cutlery, but at your table, the world felt suspended. A wide round table sat in the center of a corner room, the windows looking out over the city where neon signs flickered to life against the dusk. The lights above cast everything in amber, softening edges, warming the faces you had come to love.

Namjoon sat at your side, close enough that his arm brushed yours whenever he shifted. He wore a navy suit without the stiffness of court, his tie loosened, his laughter easy. It was strange to think of the man who had once been on trial for his life, because tonight he looked like someone who had finally stepped into it fully.

Jimin was the first to raise his glass. He had already ordered champagne for the table, and though the waiter had raised an eyebrow at the noise and teasing spilling from your corner, he didn’t stop smiling. Jimin’s voice carried over the music drifting from the speakers.

“To us,” he declared, standing slightly so everyone’s eyes would turn to him. “For tearing down walls that everyone else thought were impossible to move. For being stupid enough —”

“— and brave enough,” Taehyung cut in, smirking over the rim of his glass, “to actually win.”

Everyone laughed. Even Yoongi, seated at the far end with his usual quiet poise, allowed himself a small grin. He had traded the shadows of trial rooms for clean notebooks and contracts — his new business already scribbled across the napkin beside him. The soft pride in his gaze as he looked around the table said more than his words ever could.

Seokjin slipped in late, still wearing his white coat from an afternoon shift at the hospital. His hair was slightly mussed, his stethoscope hanging from his pocket. He sat between Hoseok and Jungkook, who immediately teased him for looking like he had come straight from saving lives to join a dinner party. Seokjin only smiled, that same tired but fulfilled smile you’d noticed lately, and shook his head.

“Some things are more important than sleep,” he said simply, pouring himself a drink.

Hoseok leaned in, voice light, but his eyes were warm. “Like celebrating the fact that we’re all still here.”

You caught Namjoon’s gaze at that, and for a moment the room blurred into background. His hand slid over yours under the table, a quiet squeeze that spoke more than words.

Conversation flowed with food — shared dishes, plates being passed, laughter spilling when Jimin insisted on stealing fries from everyone else’s plates. Jungkook told a story about his latest case, his voice low but animated, as though the work had finally given him the place he had been searching for. Hoseok countered with his own exaggerated tale, complete with hand gestures that nearly toppled a glass. Taehyung sketched the whole scene on a napkin, making everyone laugh at his dramatic doodles.

And through it all, the warmth grew, the weight of survival easing into something softer. Family.

When the waiter cleared the last of the plates, Jimin leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing mischievously. “So… are we finally going to talk about the two of you?” He gestured between you and Namjoon.

Hoseok immediately leaned in, grinning. “Yes, please. Because I swear the way he looks at you could light up this entire city.”

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, but before you could deflect, Namjoon’s voice cut in, steady and sure. “I don’t need to hide it.” He turned his head to you, his eyes soft, honest. “She saved me. More than once. I wouldn’t be sitting here if it weren’t for her.”

The table went quiet, not from discomfort but from the weight of his words. Even Jimin’s grin softened, and Taehyung closed his sketchbook.

You squeezed his hand under the table. “You make it sound like I did it alone,” you said quietly. “We all fought. We all carried this together.”

Namjoon shook his head, eyes never leaving yours. “But you were the reason I kept standing.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was full, warm, like the pause between a laugh and the moment it spills over. And when it did spill, it came in the form of Hoseok clapping his hands together and declaring, “Alright, that’s it. I’m calling it. This is officially a date.”

Jimin nearly choked on his drink. Taehyung cackled. Jungkook only smirked knowingly, like he had seen this coming long before you had. Even Yoongi shook his head, though the faint upward curve of his mouth betrayed him.

You laughed, shaking your head as you hid your face in your hand. “You’re all insufferable.”

Namjoon leaned close, his lips brushing your ear just enough for you to hear. “But maybe they’re right.”

Your heart steadied against his words. You didn’t pull away.

By the time dessert arrived — a shared plate of cake and coffee ice cream — the noise at your table had become a kind of music.

And as you looked around at the people who had once been pieces scattered by fear, now gathered whole and laughing in one place, you realized that this was what history could never quite capture: not the verdict, not the protests, not the downfall of corrupt men, but the small miracle of sitting at a table with the ones you loved, alive, free, and still choosing each other.

Namjoon lifted his glass one final time. His voice was quiet but clear.

“To beginnings,” he said.

This time, when the glasses touched, it felt like forever.

The End.

A/N: We made it to the end. Wow! Thank you so much for sticking with this story. I hope you enjoyed the drama, the slow burn, and all the chaos as much as I loved writing it.

I seriously love reading your comments, so don’t be shy — scream, cry, laugh with me in the replies. They honestly make my day.

If you’d like to support me, you can buy me a coffee (totally optional, but always appreciated ♥).

Thanks again for reading and being here. Until the next story!

-InkedWithCharm 🤍