MIRA

The courtroom smells like old wood and cold air. The kind that sinks into your bones and just sits there, waiting. I used to think war only happened in boardrooms, houses, back alleys, and places where people whisper threats instead of shouting them. But this… this is another kind of battlefield. One where the weapons were paper, signatures, and lies sharpened finely into blades.

The media fills every seat behind me. Cameras flashes whenever I turn my head and somewhere far back, I ...