I patted her shoulder gently, my gaze fixed insistently on the Prosecutor General. He groaned, then exhaled deeply.“Please bear with us. We’ll do our very best. This will be a difficult fight, but we won’t give up…”“Will you really? Can I trust you, Prosecutor General?”Her voice trembled with tears as she asked again. He nodded reluctantly. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, offering heartfelt thanks.“Please, I beg you—clear my son’s name. I implore you.”She bowed her head to both of us, wiped her tears, and rose unsteadily. I escorted her to the door; only after closing it did I turn back to the Prosecutor General. He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. I gave him a quick nod and left his office.The hallway was empty. I loosened my stiff tie and walked on, thinking that I absolutely needed a drink tonight.“Hey, Chrissy!”Doug called from behind. I turned just as he emerged from the elevator, waving and jogging to catch up.“So you got the grand-jury date? Saw it in the paper—your photo looked great.”“Mm, I guess.”I blinked tiredly—had drunk too much at the bar last night. I’d had no energy to buy a paper this morning; mercifully, a pleasant dalliance with a decent man had eased my stress. Though he’d tried to take things further, I’d politely refused. What I wanted was exactly what I’d gotten.Maybe I should’ve at least given him a blowjob.I walked on, straining to recall his face. Doug fell into step beside me.“By the way, Smith’s mom called the Prosecutor General to ask him to look out for you. She has no idea he told you to negotiate on sentence… Isn’t that absurd?”Doug’s bitter laugh made me ask, “How did she find out about negotiation?”He looked surprised. “It’s public knowledge.”I had no reply. After a moment, I said, “Most criminal cases end that way.”It’s rare to go to full trial without a plea deal. Doug chuckled.“You’re not like everyone else—going ahead even when everyone opposes it.”I admitted honestly, “I just hate playing games to let them off.”“Because justice is fair to everyone?”Doug echoed my press-stand line. I shot him a sidelong glance; he laughed uproariously. I kicked him in the shin.“Ugh.”He nearly collapsed, bracing himself against the wall. Met with my glare, he surrendered with a shrug.“Anyway, you got off to a good start—public sentiment’s on your side. But the real game has just begun.”He gave me a light-hearted send-off. “Hang in there. I’m rooting for you.”With a mock “fight!”, he headed back to his office. I greeted a passing colleague and made my way to mine. In the corridor, a few more people offered encouragement. The mood was decidedly friendlier than usual—proof that, if not for an overload of work and tax pressures, most prosecutors would welcome a plea deal rather than see the weak unfairly crucified at trial.Click…I opened my door as usual, but an unfamiliar scent hit me.…What is that?I froze. It wasn’t perfume or air freshener, nor the stale odor of my office or musty files.If anything, it was…pleasant.A faint, tantalizing fragrance that sent my heart racing. I felt a mix of unease, anticipation, and curiosity as I swung the door wider. My narrow view expanded until I took in the entire office.A tall figure stood with his back to me—someone I’d never seen before. I halted, breath caught.He stood before my desk, casually scanning the scattered papers. His suit shimmered subtly, and he was astonishingly tall—easily over seven feet. I held my breath.Yet he only dipped his head slightly; he did not bend to study the papers more closely.Suddenly, I recalled where I’d seen that suit—in an ad where a model surfed in a suit that never got wet, then walked indoors wearing the same immaculate outfit.The “waterproof suit” ad.Though he looked as if he’d just stepped out of the ocean, not a drop clung to him—and nonetheless, I could effortlessly imagine him drenched. My heart pounded against my ribs.In the early sunlight, his silver-blond hair gleamed perfectly. Beneath his closely cropped hair, a long, strong neck led to shoulders forming precise right angles. One hand slipped casually into his trouser pocket; the other pressed lightly on the papers atop my desk, the veins on its back standing out against smooth skin.My gaze traveled down the flawless line of his waist, beneath the suit jacket—where his hand in his pocket hinted at a hard, shapely hip—and along impossibly long legs. Then he slowly lifted his head.His three-piece was immaculate, and his polished Oxfords bore not a speck ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) of dust. I jerked my eyes upward—and for the first time, our gazes met.A shaft of sunlight backlit him, and I instinctively frowned—then realized:His eyes were violet.His lips parted slowly. Against the contrast of his almost-white hair, his mouth was a vivid red. I found myself staring until his rich, low voice washed over me.“Chrissy Jin?”His words caressed my ear. His voice was deeper than I’d imagined—a chill ran down my spine, and I stared at him, uncomprehending. Without another word, he reached into his suit’s inner pocket and withdrew his wallet.

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