The criminal trial began exactly six months after the incident.

By then, intricate networks of skin grafts had covered my shoulder, leaving behind a tapestry of raised pink scars—a map of the war I had survived.

On opening day, Daniel strutted into the courtroom, flashing perfectly bleached teeth for the local press cameras, looking every bit the wrongfully accused aristocrat.

Vivian trailed closely behind him, dressed head to toe in virginal white, clutching a worn leather-bound Bible to her chest as if she were a persecuted saint.

Their smug confidence lasted exactly forty-three minutes.

The lead prosecutor, a brilliant, unrelenting woman named Sarah Jenkins, didn’t waste time on flowery opening statements.