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# Chapter 115: Evidence of Fingers
The moment Kang Riou’s hands began to tremble, Saea realized exactly who she was testifying against.
It wasn’t abstract evil. It wasn’t the concept of wrongdoing. It was trembling fingers on a table. The shadows they cast. The body those fingers belonged to. The face that body wore. The eyes in that face.
The prosecutor’s follow-up question pulled Saea’s consciousness back into the courtroom.
“What happened on Jeju Island?”
The prosecutor’s voice was gentle as before, but now Saea understood it wasn’t gentleness—it was strategy. A tactic to reassure the victim, to guide her toward completing the evidence. The courtroom was a stage. Saea was an actress. And Kang Riou wasn’t the defendant—he was the audience.
“He was waiting for me at the hotel.”
Saea spoke. Her voice was barely audible. But under the fluorescent lights of the courtroom, everything was amplified. Every word. Every silence. Every tear. Saea’s small voice filled the entire courtroom.
“And?”
“And I ran. From his car. While he was driving.”
Saea was seeing that scene again. Without even closing her eyes. A Jeju night. A black car. Kang Riou’s hands gripping the steering wheel. Those hands. The same ones trembling in this courtroom now.
“You jumped from the car?”
“Yes.”
“Were you injured?”
Saea looked at her own arms. Under the fluorescent lights. The scars that had been on her forearms were now just faint marks. But the process of how they were made remained vivid. The impact of hitting asphalt. The warmth of blood flowing. That warmth was proof she was alive.
“I had wounds.”
“Are those wounds documented in medical records?”
“Yes. I went to a hospital in Jeju and received treatment.”
The prosecutor handed over papers. Medical records. Saea’s name. The type of wound. Depth. Treatment method. Everything recorded in objective language. Saea was learning that even pain could be objectified.
“What happened after that?”
The prosecutor continued.
“I reported it to the police.”
“Immediately?”
“No. A week later.”
“Why did you wait a week?”
In that question, Saea saw the prosecutor’s true intention. This wasn’t a question meant to convict Kang Riou. This was a question to verify whether Saea’s own testimony was consistent. The very question the defendant’s lawyer was waiting to ask. Why did the victim wait a week? What happened in that time? If she were truly a victim, why didn’t she report it immediately?
“I was… afraid.”
Saea answered.
“Afraid of what?”
“Of what would happen if I reported it. Of what would become a trial. Of situations like this.”
Saea spoke. And in that moment, she felt how fragile her testimony was. Fear isn’t evidence. Fear is explanation. And explanations can be doubted.
Kang Riou’s lawyer stood.
A man in a black suit. He appeared to be in his fifties. His face was completely expressionless. As if demonstrating that this was merely a job. That making someone guilty and making someone innocent were equally routine tasks to perform.
“Ms. Na Saea, you stated that you were in a romantic relationship with defendant Kang Riou, correct?”
The lawyer asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you wanted to end that relationship?”
Saea stopped answering. It wasn’t a simple question. It was a trap.
“Yes.”
Saea spoke carefully.
“Then why didn’t you break up? If someone who says he loves you is tormenting you, why didn’t you just leave?”
The lawyer continued. And in that question was already the answer. Isn’t it because you loved him too? That’s why you couldn’t leave, isn’t it? Then isn’t this not abuse but love?
Saea’s mouth went dry.
“Love and abuse are different.”
Saea said. There was a tremor in her voice.
“Are they? You maintained a relationship with that man for a year. You didn’t break up. You answered his calls. You saw him. So from what moment did it become abuse? According to your definition?”
The lawyer’s questions were surgical strikes. Precise, sharp, attempting to find contradictions in Saea’s testimony.
Saea looked at the judge. The judge did nothing. This was the courtroom. Here, even victims were merely evidence.
“I ran away. To Jeju. And he came looking for me. And I ran again. That’s when I jumped from the car.”
Saea said.
“That’s true. But you waited a week. Why? Why didn’t you report it in that week? Did you perhaps contact defendant Kang Riou again?”
Saea fell silent. That was a mistake. Silence in the courtroom was admission.
The lawyer smiled. A very small smile.
“You contacted him again. Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he said he would kill himself.”
Saea said.
“So you met him again?”
“No. I didn’t meet him. But I kept answering his calls.”
“Why did you answer his calls? If you believed the defendant was tormenting you?”
The lawyer was asking. And Saea knew she couldn’t answer. Because the reason itself was contradictory. Because she had loved him. Because she felt guilt. Because she didn’t trust herself.
“His life mattered to me.”
Saea said.
“Didn’t your life matter?”
The lawyer asked.
Before that question, Saea’s world shook.
“Didn’t your life matter?”
The lawyer asked again. As if knowing that Saea’s lack of an answer was already the answer.
Saea looked at Kang Riou again. His hands continued to tremble. And the moment she saw those hands, Saea understood. That Kang Riou knew how serious what he’d done was. That Kang Riou knew he was the defendant. And that Kang Riou was afraid too.
Tears fell from Saea’s eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Saea said. It wasn’t to anyone. Not to the judge, not the prosecutor, not the lawyer. It was just words floating in the air. Or words she was saying to herself.
“There’s no need to apologize.”
The judge said. It was the first time the judge had spoken. And that statement changed the weight of the entire courtroom at once.
The lawyer continued asking questions. But now those questions had lost their meaning. Because the judge had already spoken. You don’t need to feel guilt. You are the victim.
Saea didn’t remember the rest of the questions.
Her body was in the courtroom, but her mind had already left for somewhere else. The beach in Jeju. Her mother’s house. Haewon’s face. Dohyun’s voice. Everything was overlapping. And at the center of it all were Kang Riou’s trembling hands.
When she left the witness stand, Saea looked at Kang Riou one more time.
Kang Riou was looking at her. And in his eyes there were tears. But the tears still didn’t fall. As if he were in a state of emotion where he could neither weep nor laugh. As if he didn’t even know who he was anymore.
Haewon was waiting for Saea outside the courtroom.
“Is it over?”
Haewon asked.
“Yeah.”
Saea answered.
“Was it hard?”
“Yeah.”
“You did well. You did really well.”
Haewon wrapped her arm around Saea’s shoulders. And in that moment, Saea realized just how exhausted she was. Like surfacing from underwater and taking her first breath.
The lawyer came out.
“Did you see the judge’s demeanor? She believes your testimony. You responded to cross-examination systematically. You managed your expression well. Your statement was consistent. No problems. Really, no problems at all.”
The lawyer said.
But Saea wasn’t listening. She was still thinking about Kang Riou’s trembling hands.
Those hands were just like her own. Resonating hands. Hands that were evidence. And what those hands had created had changed her life. Not just Kang Riou’s hands, but her own hands had created it too.
“Now you just have to wait for the verdict.”
The lawyer continued.
“When?”
Saea asked.
“About a month.”
A month. During that time, what would she do? Saea couldn’t think about it. A month was too long. And yet, simultaneously, too short.
When she left the courthouse building, Seoul’s sunlight struck Saea’s face.
That light was no different from Jeju’s sunlight. The same light from the same sun. But the Saea it illuminated was a completely different person. Different from an hour ago. Different from yesterday. Different from a year ago.
Haewon took Saea’s hand.
“What do you want to eat?”
Haewon asked.
“I don’t know.”
Saea answered.
“Let’s at least get some rice. You still need to eat.”
Haewon said. Like a mother.
Saea followed Haewon. Without letting go of her hand. Carrying the trembling the courtroom had created. And remembering Kang Riou’s trembling hands.
She doesn’t know when those hands started trembling, but now that too was evidence. Just like her own. And the evidence speaks. That someone is alive, and someone is dying.
That was the language of the courtroom. The evidence of fingers. The truth of trembling.