"Objection sustained."
The judge's gavel struck the hardwood bench like a thunderclap, cutting through the tense atmosphere. A wave of murmurs rippled through the courtroom as the opposing counsel lowered his head, defeated yet again. At the heart of it all stood a man in a sleek charcoal suit—tailored to perfection, like the rest of him.
Kang Joon-ho adjusted his cufflinks.
His eyes were cold, calculating—like a scalpel poised before the first incision.
Another win.
Another broken opposition.
Another day at the top of Seoul's most cutthroat law firm.
"Defense may proceed," the judge said, shifting slightly in his seat.
Joon-ho stepped forward, his shoes clicking against the polished marble floor. The plaintiff's side had filed a class-action lawsuit against C&T Group, accusing the conglomerate of selling contaminated insulin that allegedly caused severe organ damage in low-income patients. It had all the markings of a public relations disaster.
But not for Joon-ho.
For him, it was Tuesday.
"Your Honor, my clients sympathize with the plaintiffs, but we must remember—sympathy does not equal liability." His voice was smooth, like aged whiskey. "We have provided extensive documentation proving that the side effects were within the FDA-approved threshold. The plaintiffs signed waiver forms acknowledging these risks. What we are seeing is not a pattern of neglect, but of unfortunate coincidence."
The plaintiffs' attorney—a tired, middle-aged man with slumped shoulders and bloodshot eyes—rose shakily to object. "These people were misled. They weren't warned—"
"Objection," Joon-ho cut in, raising a single finger. "The counsel is appealing to emotion. Again."
"Sustained," the judge said with a frown.
That was the tenth objection sustained in under an hour.
In the gallery, a woman gasped—barely audible. One of the plaintiffs. Her hands were trembling in her lap, clutching a photo of a young boy. Her son, perhaps. Eyes dim, face pale.
Joon-ho saw her.
And promptly looked away.
He'd built a reputation on three principles: win, bury, move on.
It wasn't his job to feel sorry.
It was his job to win.
And as the verdict was delivered—not liable on all counts—Joon-ho merely nodded to himself and packed his briefcase. Applause erupted from C&T Group's side of the gallery. The company's executives clapped him on the back, offering words of praise:
"Masterful cross-examination."
"You turned the tide in two days."
"You're a genius, Kang."
He nodded at each compliment with clinical detachment. It was always like this. Clients cheered, enemies seethed, and victims wept. But in the end, he won. He always won.
That night, the celebration was held at the Glass Room, one of Seoul's most exclusive rooftop lounges. The kind of place where entry cost more than an average person's rent. Velvet sofas. Gold-rimmed glasses. Jazz drifting through speakers.
Joon-ho leaned against the bar, staring out at the glittering skyline.
Someone tried handing him a drink.
He waved it off.
He didn't drink after major cases. Not anymore.
"Enjoying your kingdom, King Kang?" a voice teased behind him.
It was Choi Mi-ra, another senior partner, glass of wine in hand. Her sharp eyes glimmered with both admiration and envy. "Crushing the hopes of the downtrodden suits you."
"Don't pretend you wouldn't have taken the case if I hadn't."
"Touché." She sipped. "So what now? Another case? Or maybe a vacation in Switzerland?"
"I'm not done here yet."
"Still climbing?"
"There's always more to climb."
Mi-ra gave a short laugh and walked away. Joon-ho turned back to the cityscape. For a long moment, he just stood there, listening to nothing but the sound of laughter and the distant hum of traffic far below.
He was 39.
No wife. No children. No scandal. No weakness.
At the peak of his field.
And yet—
Why did it feel so quiet?
---
He walked alone that night, declining the company car and driver. The spring air was cool, brushing against his coat like a whisper. The streets of Gangnam were alive—neon lights flickering, couples laughing, restaurants bustling.
He stopped in front of a convenience store to buy cigarettes, then remembered he'd quit five years ago.
Or tried to.
He stared at the pack for a long moment, then turned away.
That's when he heard the footsteps.
Soft. Uneven.
He turned.
A woman stood at the alley's mouth, her coat soaked from the light rain, hair plastered to her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, hollow.
"Kang Joon-ho," she said quietly.
He blinked.
"I… know you?" he asked cautiously.
She stepped forward, and he saw the photograph in her hand.
A boy with large eyes. Oxygen tubes.
Then he remembered. She was one of the plaintiffs. She had sobbed during testimony. He had written her off as irrelevant.
"You smiled," she whispered. "When they read the verdict, you smiled."
"I was doing my job," he replied, stepping back. "You should go home."
"My son died because of you."
"That's not—"
A flash of metal.
Pain.
He looked down and saw the handle of a knife jutting from his side.
It didn't register at first. He just stared at it dumbly, watching his own blood pour over his tailored coat like spilled wine.
The woman was crying now, not screaming, just crying—soft and trembling.
"You buried us. You let them win. You knew. You knew."
Joon-ho collapsed to the ground. The concrete was cold and wet. His vision blurred.
Above him, the city lights stretched into streaks.
The last thing he heard was a whisper in the wind.
"You defended monsters."
---
Darkness.
Then—
A jolt.
Gasping breath. Cold sweat.
Joon-ho sat upright, chest heaving.
He was… in bed?
Not a hospital. Not a prison. Not the ground.
A cheap dormitory bunk.
He looked around. The room was small, cluttered. Posters on the wall. Books stacked haphazardly. A plastic fan spinning lazily from the ceiling.
He threw off the blanket and stumbled to the mirror.
His reflection stared back.
But it wasn't his 39-year-old self.
It was him—at 22.
Younger. Sharper jawline. No streaks of gray. No crow's feet.
This wasn't possible.
"This… this is a dream."
He pinched his arm. It hurt.
He opened the drawer. Student ID.
Kang Joon-ho. Seoul National University. Law Department. Year: 2005.
No. No, no, no.
2005.
This was 17 years ago.
Before his first internship.
Before he was recruited by C&T.
Before the class-action trial.
Before he became the Devil's advocate.
He stared at the ID card until the edges blurred.
What was this?
Rebirth? Delusion? Hell?
Then he remembered her face.
The woman in the rain.
The boy in the photo.
He staggered out of his dorm room, nearly tripping down the stairs. It was late morning. Birds chirped. Students laughed.
This campus—he knew every corner of it.
He wasn't dreaming.
"Joon-ho!"
A familiar voice called out. He turned to see Professor Han Ji-sung, younger than he remembered, still with that salt-and-pepper goatee.
Han walked over, squinting. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I… I'm just tired, sir."
Han studied him for a long moment.
Then he said something that made Joon-ho stop breathing.
"You know, the law shapes society, Joon-ho. But always remember… someone shapes the law."
Joon-ho's knees felt weak.
That was the line.
The one he heard after graduation.
The line that made him question whether he'd done the right thing.
Why was he hearing it now?
He looked at Han, at the campus, at the sky.
This was real.
He was back.
Back before he became the weapon of the corporations.
Back before he sacrificed everything for victory.
Back before he learned to smile while mothers wept.
He had been given another chance.
And this time—
He wasn't going to waste it.
---