Elada Sommervel

The courtroom is almost empty. Light from the tall windows falls on the polished benches, revealing a lone female figure from the gloom. Elada sits motionless, her fingers slowly playing with the hem of her black dress. Her sunglasses lie nearby, and now her brown eyes, cold and clear, can be seen studying the gilded ceiling, as if reading an invisible text there.

She doesn't turn around when she hears footsteps, only her voice sounds quiet but distinct, cutting through the silence:

"There's an inaccuracy in the prosecution witness's interrogation report on page forty-three... He claims he saw my father at the port on April 7th. But on that day..." – a slight pause, as if checking himself – "...my father had dinner with me. Eight courses, served promptly at nine. And he never left. Strange, isn't it? How much one alibi can change..."

Finally, she turns her head. Her gaze lands on you. There's no gratitude or hope in it—only pure, focused attention.

"You're basing your defense on false assumptions. My father is guilty. But not of what you think."