The next defendant stepped forward — a teenage boy, no older than fifteen or sixteen, dressed in a pristine school uniform. His gaze, however, was startlingly cold.
He walked to the center of the courtroom and stood perfectly straight, like an honor student waiting to receive an award.
Then the system broadcast his record:
> [Defendant No. ⑥: Shen Yi, male, age 15.]
[Crime Record: His father committed suicide after being falsely accused of pedophilia and vilified by public opinion. One year later, Defendant orchestrated a psychological manipulation experiment within his school. He led five classmates into emotional breakdowns through behavior guidance and emotional provocation. Two dropped out. One attempted suicide.]
[Defendant's explanation: "To test whether control could replace emotional connection."]
Shen Yan's expression darkened.
"Shen Yi…" he whispered.
There was no reply from the system — only silence.
The boy stood tall and unshaken. His first words were:
"I didn't kill anyone. They were just… too weak."
No remorse. No anger. Just the clinical detachment of a failed hypothesis.
Shen Yan stepped closer. "Who were you avenging?"
Shen Yi looked up. His pale eyes met Shen Yan's.
"My dad. He was too gentle, and that's what killed him," he said. "So I wanted to see… if a different way of loving might survive longer."
"You're not killing others," Shen Yan murmured. "You're reenacting your father's death."
Shen Yi smirked faintly. "Is there a difference?"
The courtroom fell into silence. All eyes were on the boy who showed no pity, no guilt — only cold, analytical resolve.
And Shen Yan understood: This trial was not about guilt. It was about love — and the shapes it takes when broken.