By Zephyria 
The deep furrow between my brows refused to smooth out as I read through the densely packed text. Finally, after finishing the newspaper, a frustrated sigh escaped my lips.
‘Self-defense.’
That was the crux of the defense Nathaniel Miller had built. I didn’t even need to check the rest to know what followed. He must have spent the entire trial slandering and insulting the victim, inflating every tiny flaw into something monstrous.
‘My child did not live a very exemplary life.’
Mrs. Smith had confessed to me in a devastated voice.
‘If all of that were to be revealed to the world, people would condemn him. I simply, simply cannot let that happen…’
She had sobbed, imagining the horror. It wasn’t that I couldn’t guess how viciously ‘Miller’ would tear into him. I wondered what kind of secret her dead son held that would make her break down to such an extent. With a conflicted heart, I rubbed my eyes, unable to ask further, and had to let her go. And the conclusion was this.
Eight years in prison. Eligible for parole after three years.
That was the entirety of the sentence Davis received. The reason was that it was manslaughter, there was no intent to kill, and because the victim had been stalking him, he had been feeling fearful and simply defended himself in terror when the victim suddenly appeared at the party. He likely used this logic for his defense in court. Though it was all over now.
The only silver lining was that I was able to secure a substantial amount of compensation for the bereaved family. That had also been part of the negotiations, but in truth, it wasn’t my job to handle that. I should have told them to proceed with a civil lawsuit and stepped away, but after everything that had happened, I couldn’t find peace unless I squeezed some compensation out of them. Of course, I asked for permission from the bereaved family, including Mrs. Smith, beforehand. Having suffered financial hardship after the death of Anthony, who had provided most of their livelihood, they couldn’t hide their relief despite their skepticism toward my words.
Fortunately, Smith’s side accepted the terms without much objection. Money instead of a longer sentence—isn’t that an easy trade for those overflowing with wealth?
I had braced myself for that day, but Nathaniel Miller himself did not appear. Instead, three lawyers from Miller’s firm came to conduct the negotiations. And thus, the case of Smith vs. Davis came to an end.
Once again proving the fact that ‘money solves all problems.’
“Haaa.”
Having reconfirmed everything I already knew through the newspaper article, I let out a long, audible sigh and sank deep into my chair. I felt as if my entire body were melting away from a sense of defeat.
* * *
From early afternoon, the sky began to sprinkle rain. I sat perched on the windowsill, blankly smoking a cigarette. I had taken a day off under the pretext of feeling unwell, but I had nothing in particular to do. I was simply lounging around the studio all day, doing absolutely nothing. If the weather had been nice, I would have gone to the park, but now that it was raining, I had even less reason to go outside.
The sound of the rain hovered around my ears, cluttered like a pianist striking keys irregularly. Despite this, I continued to smoke, staring only out the window. It had been a very long time since I had left a day completely empty and spent time without any plans.
Though I was idling without any specific schedule, I didn’t particularly feel bored. I was simply immersed in a sense of helplessness while watching the rain fall. Perhaps I was exhausted. I had been running forward like crazy for the past few years. Maybe this is what burnout feels like…
Just as I was thinking that, the doorbell suddenly rang.
I don’t have anyone who would visit.
I was momentarily flustered, but after a brief silence, the bell rang again. This time, the sound lingered longer, and I reluctantly pushed myself off the windowsill and walked across the room. Just as I was about to press the intercom button, the bell rang once more. Pressing the button to cut off the sharp, piercing beep, I asked, not hiding my annoyance.
“Who is it?”
The answer came after a gap of two or three seconds.
“Nathaniel Miller.”
This time, I was the one who fell silent. What did I just hear? As if he could see my reaction, the man spoke again.
“It is Nathaniel Miller.”
Then, he asked in a voice that seemed to carry a hint of a smile.
“If you are indeed Prosecutor Chrissy Jin, you should know who I am.”
Even if I weren’t Chrissy Jin, there was hardly anyone who didn’t know Nathaniel Miller. The reason this man knew my address was simple: he had dropped me off here last time. But even so, why did he come here, so suddenly?
I couldn’t even guess the reason. I was both appalled and bewildered, but I couldn’t keep fumbling and stalling for time. Just before the intercom cut off and the man could ring the bell again, I opened the front door by a hair’s breadth. And until Nathaniel Miller made his way up to my studio, I hurriedly tidied my appearance and looked around. When I spotted some clothes thrown haphazardly on the floor and kicked them under the bed, the doorbell rang.
Phew. I let out a breath and stepped forward. This time, the man waited without ringing the bell again. He probably knew I was inside. Feeling that such an obvious assumption somehow irritated me, I unlocked the door and opened it. The familiar man standing in the open space looked down at me. To meet his eyes, I had to stretch my neck as much as possible; he curled the corner of his mouth slightly and spoke.
“Prosecutor.”
Giving a short nod instead of a greeting, he scanned my studio, moving only his eyes. It wasn’t a difficult task. Nathaniel Miller’s eyes were far above the level of my head.
As he lowered his gaze back to my face, his expression wasn’t much different from before, but for some reason, I felt a sense of dissonance. Should I say his eyes seemed somehow softer?
Just as I thought it was merely an illusion.
“It seems you are alone.”
What?
Speaking in a low voice, Nathaniel stepped inside without waiting for an answer. Having instinctively stepped aside, I followed the man passing by me with his cane, speaking with a look of absurdity on my face.
“Please, come in.”
I had no choice but to close the front door and turn around. Nathaniel Miller, standing in the center of the studio, took a look around the place. Only after confirming with his eyes that the studio was an open space encompassing the kitchen, living room, and even the bedroom did he leisurely turn to face me.
“It is a cozy and lovely place.”
So that’s how he says ‘it’s cramped as hell,’ I thought, asking him bluntly.
“What brings you here so suddenly?”
At my stiff tone, Nathaniel narrowed his eyes and wore his characteristic, mocking smile. I reflexively frowned, and suddenly, he lifted something. Only then did I realize he had been holding something in the hand that wasn’t gripping the cane. I looked back and forth between Nathaniel’s face and the object, bewildered. It was a box bearing the logo of a champagne renowned for being expensive.