Gaeun stood, smoothing out her blazer with an air of feigned confidence.
"Members of the court," she began, her voice saccharine, calculated. "The prosecution would like you to believe that this is a simple case of breach of contract. That my client failed to uphold their obligations. But the truth is far more nuanced than that."
She walked to the center of the room, pacing slowly as she continued. A classic move to establish control.
"The terms of the contract were ambiguous at best," she said. "The prosecution wants to frame this as a clear-cut violation, but in reality, the language used in the contract leaves plenty of room for interpretation. And in law, when terms are unclear, the benefit of the doubt always lies with the defendant."
She stopped, flashing a self-assured smile. "We will prove that my client did not intentionally breach any contract, and that the prosecution is simply trying to twist the facts to fit their narrative."
With that, she returned to her seat.
The judge nodded, her expression neutral. "Understood. We'll proceed with the presentation of evidence. Prosecution, you may begin."
I exhaled slowly, letting a small smirk curve at my lips.
Gaeun made a mistake.
She'd framed the entire case around the idea of ambiguity. That meant she was relying on misinterpretation as her defense.
Which meant all I had to do was eliminate the possibility of doubt.
I stood, turning toward the judge.
"Your Honor, we will begin by presenting the contract itself," I said smoothly. "A legally binding document that clearly outlines the expectations set by both parties."
I walked toward the evidence stand, picking up the document we had prepared. Not a copy, but the original.
I turned slightly, locking eyes with Gaeun as I spoke.
"There is nothing ambiguous about these terms."
I placed the contract down in front of the judge, my expression calm, unwavering.
"The defendant agreed to deliver a set amount of resources by a specified deadline. They failed to do so. The contract does not allow for 'interpretation' when the terms are clearly stated in black and white."
I took a step back, letting my words sink in.
"In this case, we are not debating intention. We are proving failure to act. And the failure to act, Your Honor, is a breach. Plain and simple."
I turned slightly, just enough to catch the flicker of doubt in Gaeun's eyes.
There it is.
The first crack.
I returned to my seat, watching as the judge nodded.
"Defense, you may cross-examine."
Gaeun stood again, flipping through her notes, her confident demeanor faltering just slightly.
She'd underestimated me. Again.
And now, she was scrambling to recover.
I glanced at Hyerin, who was watching the exchange carefully.
Good. Pay attention, Hyerin. This is how you win.
Gaeun exhaled, masking her hesitation as she stood, her fingers tightening slightly around her papers before she schooled her features back into that carefully curated expression of confidence.
She approached the evidence stand, taking a moment to glance at the contract before shifting her gaze toward me.
"A well-argued point, as expected," she said smoothly. "However, as the prosecution so boldly claims that there is no ambiguity in this contract, I'd like to draw attention to one key aspect—the delivery clause."
She turned toward the judge, gesturing toward the document. "The contract states that the resources were to be delivered 'within a reasonable timeframe.'"
She let the words hang in the air.
"Now, Your Honor," she continued, her tone light but calculated, "the phrase 'reasonable timeframe' is inherently subjective. What constitutes 'reasonable' for one party may not be the same for another. There is no explicit deadline mentioned, nor is there a clause specifying a penalty for late delivery. Therefore, can we truly say with absolute certainty that my client breached the contract?"
A few murmurs spread through the hall.
Ah.
I see what you're doing, Gaeun.
She wasn't refuting the contract itself—she was twisting the interpretation just enough to introduce doubt.
I leaned back slightly in my seat, unfazed. She was grasping at straws.
The judge nodded. "Prosecution, your rebuttal?"
I stood, adjusting my blazer as I took a slow step forward.
"If I may, Your Honor," I began, my voice smooth, deliberate, controlled.
I turned toward Gaeun, offering her a small smile.
"You bring up an interesting point," I mused. "The term 'reasonable timeframe' is indeed written into the contract. However, what you conveniently fail to mention is that 'reasonable' does not mean 'indefinite.'"
I let that settle for a moment before continuing.
"The standard legal definition of 'reasonable timeframe' is based on industry expectations and common business practices," I said. "And as it so happens—we have a precedent for this."
I gestured toward Nari, who was already prepared, sliding another document forward onto the evidence stand.
"This case from two years ago—Lee v. Han Corp.—established that a 'reasonable timeframe' for delivery within the industry in question was a period of ten days. My client waited forty-five."
Gaeun's jaw tightened just slightly.
I smiled.
"The defendant did not just 'delay' the delivery," I continued, voice unwavering. "They disregarded it entirely until legal action was threatened."
I turned back toward the judge.
"Your Honor, the term may not specify an exact date, but the failure to meet an industry-accepted standard voids any defense of ambiguity. The defendant was aware of these expectations. They simply chose to ignore them."
The judge nodded, flipping through the case reference.
"Point noted," she said.
I returned to my seat, my smirk barely contained.
Across from me, Gaeun's expression remained composed, but her fingers had curled slightly against the table.
She knew.
She had lost this argument.
And now?
She had to scramble to salvage what was left.
I tilted my head slightly, meeting her gaze.
Your move, Gaeun. But it won't change the outcome.
Gaeun's lips pressed together in a tight line. She was cornered.
She knew it. I knew it. And now, the rest of the courtroom was beginning to see it too.
Still, she wasn't the type to surrender easily.
She exhaled sharply, flipping through her notes with forced composure before turning to the judge.
"Your Honor," she began, her tone lighter now, less confident. "While the prosecution presents a strong argument, I'd like to shift focus to the plaintiff's response. If the delay was truly so detrimental, why did they not take immediate action when the deadline had passed?"
She paced slightly, regaining some control over her delivery.
"The prosecution argues that my client knowingly ignored the delivery expectations," she continued, "but the plaintiff did not issue a formal complaint or attempt to rectify the matter through communication before resorting to legal action. Shouldn't that in itself suggest that the delay was not as damaging as they claim?"
Clever.
A weak argument, but still a clever distraction.
She was trying to shift the burden onto the plaintiff—to make the case about why they didn't act sooner, rather than focusing on the defendant's failure.
I smiled to myself. A desperate move.
The judge turned toward me. "Prosecution, do you wish to respond?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Of course, Your Honor."
I stood smoothly, taking measured steps toward the center of the courtroom.
"Gaeun," I said casually, tilting my head slightly, "do you know what an implied waiver is?"
She stiffened, her expression flickering just slightly. "Of course I do."
"Good," I mused. "Then you should also know that in contract law, simply tolerating a delay does not mean the affected party forfeits their right to legal action. In other words—silence does not equal consent."
A few students whispered among themselves at that.
I continued.
"The plaintiff's delayed response is irrelevant," I said, my voice smooth, absolute. "What matters is that a breach occurred. If the defense wants to argue that waiting to file a claim invalidates the breach, then they'll need to present legal precedent to support that."
I gestured slightly. "Do you have any, Gaeun?"
Her jaw tensed.
She had none.
The judge glanced at her expectantly. "Defense?"
Silence.
Gaeun exhaled slowly. "No, Your Honor."
I smiled, returning to my seat.
"Then I believe we've made our point."
The shift in the room was unmistakable. The case was slipping from Gaeun's grasp, and everyone knew it.
The judge turned toward the defense table. "Does the defense have any remaining witnesses or evidence to present?"
Gaeun hesitated.
For the first time today, she looked uncertain.
Her teammates, Mirae and Jisoo, exchanged glances.
She had nothing left.
I watched as she clenched her jaw, her shoulders rising slightly before finally exhaling in defeat.
"No, Your Honor," she admitted.
The judge nodded, turning back to us.
"Then we will proceed to closing arguments."
I smirked slightly, leaning back in my seat.
This game was over.
Now, it was time to deliver the final blow.
I turned slightly, shifting my gaze to Hyerin, who had been following every exchange with sharp focus.
Good. She was paying attention. I like that.
I smirked, leaning in slightly. "Hyerin, why don't you close it out for us?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "Me?"
Beside me, Nari raised an eyebrow. Even she seemed surprised.
Hyerin hesitated, glancing between us. "What about Nari?"
I tilted my head. "What about her?"
Hyerin frowned, clearly uncertain. "She's more experienced than me. She should handle the closing argument."
I rested my chin against my palm, watching her. "And what better way to gain experience than to do it yourself?"
Her lips parted slightly, as if to argue, but I could already see the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.
She wasn't backing out.
She was considering it.
Nari sighed, arms crossed. "You're really throwing the closing argument at a newbie?"
I shrugged. "Why not? Gaeun's already lost. The closing is just for show at this point."
Hyerin inhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back. She was still unsure—but she was going to do it.
I smirked. "Go on, Hyerin. Take the win yourself."
She exhaled sharply, then stood, adjusting her blazer.
And just like that, she stepped forward.
The room shifted.
Students who had written her off as just another transfer student suddenly turned their full attention to her.
I leaned back, watching.
Show me what you've learned, Hyerin.