Disclaimer:

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The legal aspects and courtroom proceedings depicted may not be 100% accurate and are written for narrative purposes. If you’re knowledgeable about law and notice discrepancies, please understand that creative liberties were taken to serve the story’s emotional depth and pacing.

Oikawa sat in the courtroom, his hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. The weight of the day pressed against his shoulders, but he refused to let it show.

This was it. The moment that would determine everything. The air was thick with tension, the hushed murmurs of journalists and media personnel filling the large courtroom.

Cameras flashed from the press section, capturing every second of this unprecedented trial.

His friends were there. Kuroo, Bokuto, Kenma, Keiji, Kiyoko, Konoha, Kyotani, and Yaku—all seated behind him in silent support. He could feel their presence, grounding him, reminding him that he wasn’t alone.

Ushijima, their lawyer, sat beside him, flipping through documents with unwavering composure.

Then, the heavy doors at the back of the courtroom creaked open.

The room seemed to still.

Oikawa turned his head, and there they were.

Iwaizumi. Hanamaki. Matsukawa. Suna. Sakusa.

The five of them walked in, their expressions unreadable, dressed in formal attire instead of their prison uniforms. Despite everything, despite the weight of the past weeks, they still held their heads high. They weren’t broken. Not yet.

Oikawa clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe.

But behind them, his blood ran cold.

Shugo Meian stepped into the courtroom, flanked by his parents, their presence as imposing as ever.

His once-pristine suit was slightly disheveled, a far cry from the untouchable businessman he had been before his empire began to crumble.

The chains around his wrists clinked softly as he walked, restrained but still exuding arrogance.

And behind him, Oikawa’s parents followed.

Oikawa’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. Even now, they still held themselves with dignity, still carried themselves like they had done nothing wrong. Like they weren’t responsible for all of this.

Oikawa curled his fingers into fists on his lap.

This was it. The trial had begun.

The courtroom was suffocating. The weight of the eyes watching, the flashes of cameras from the press section, the relentless murmurs of anticipation—it was enough to drown out the sound of his own heartbeat, yet Oikawa could feel it, pounding inside his chest like a war drum. His palms were damp with sweat, but he didn’t wipe them against his slacks. He sat rigidly, eyes trained on the judge at the center of it all, forcing himself to breathe, to remain calm.

The charges were read aloud.

Iwaizumi Hajime. Hanamaki Takahiro. Matsukawa Issei. Suna Rintarou. Sakusa Kiyoomi.

On paper, they were nothing more than outlaws, nothing more than men who lived and thrived in the shadows. The prosecution painted them as dangerous, as individuals who evaded the law for too long, finally caught in its iron grip.

But Oikawa knew better.

And soon, so would the rest of the world.

The first round of testimonies began. Evidence was laid out—security footage, transaction histories, criminal records, old reports that all screamed the same narrative: that ROD was an organization built on destruction, on underground dealings that blurred the lines between legality and crime. The prosecutor stood confidently, his voice steady, unwavering.

“These men,” he said, motioning to Iwaizumi and the rest, “have operated outside the law for years. They have made a mockery of justice, evading capture, slipping through the cracks of our system. Today, we finally put an end to their reckless defiance.”

Oikawa felt his stomach turn. He watched as Iwaizumi remained still, jaw clenched, hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. Matsukawa had his eyes closed, as if he were merely listening to the droning voice of a professor in a lecture hall.

Hanamaki had his lips pressed into a thin line, fingers tapping lightly against his knee. Suna looked as indifferent as ever, but Oikawa saw the tension in his shoulders. And Sakusa—Sakusa was staring at the floor, unmoving.

Then, it was their lawyer’s turn.

Ushijima Wakatoshi stood up, calm and methodical. Unlike the prosecutor, who relied on dramatics and aggressive storytelling, Ushijima was nothing but logic. Nothing but hard, irrefutable truth.

“The prosecution claims my clients are criminals. That they are a danger to society,” Ushijima started, his deep voice commanding attention. “But let us ask ourselves—where is the full truth? What lies beneath these accusations? Because today, we are here not just to determine their guilt or innocence, but to question what has been presented as fact.”

A few gasps rippled through the courtroom. The prosecutor frowned. Ushijima merely turned to the judge, then back to the jury.

“I will call forth a witness,” he announced. “A man who has seen both sides of this conflict firsthand. Someone who can bring to light the truth of what really happened.”

Oikawa inhaled sharply.

This was it.

The bailiff called his name, and with heavy steps, Oikawa stood and walked toward the witness stand.

He could feel their gazes—he could feel his gaze. Iwaizumi was watching him, but Oikawa didn’t dare look back. Not yet.

He swore to tell the truth. And for the first time in a long, long time, he was ready to do just that.

The courtroom held its breath.

Oikawa straightened his back, fingers gripping the wooden railing of the witness stand. His voice was steady, but it carried the weight of everything he had endured.

“They were never the criminals,” he continued, scanning the room, making sure every journalist, every camera, every person who had once believed the lies heard him. “They didn’t hurt me. They didn’t force me to do anything. If anything, they were the ones who saved me from the real enemy.”

“And who is the real enemy, Mr. Oikawa?” Ushijima asked, measured and patient.

Oikawa’s breath hitched for a moment. He turned, locking eyes with the man he had once feared, the man who had nearly ruined him beyond repair.

Shugo Meian.

The man smirked, despite the cuffs around his wrists. As if none of this mattered. As if Oikawa was nothing more than a joke, a pawn who had played his role.

Oikawa curled his fists, forcing himself to keep his voice strong.

“Shugo Meian,” he declared. “He is the real criminal.”

A wave of gasps echoed throughout the room.

Oikawa didn’t let them settle.

He began to tell everything.

About how Meian had been hunting R.O.D long before Oikawa had even met them. About the real reason Iwaizumi and his group were wanted—not because they were criminals, but because Meian saw them as a threat. A threat to his power, to his control.

He told them about the arrangement, the forced engagement, the way Meian manipulated his family into believing it was the only way. He told them about the abuse, the bruises, the suffocating grip Meian had on him—physically, mentally, emotionally.

Then he told them about that final night. The betrayal.

How he had no choice.

How he had to turn them in to keep them alive.

His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. He described the way Meian had hurt him, had violated him, had broken him down into someone unrecognizable. He told them about the risks he had taken, the evidence he had gathered, the people who had helped him.

And finally—he told them about love.

Because despite everything, despite the betrayal, despite the scars left behind, the truth was simple.

He had never once feared his ride or die.

But he had always, always feared losing them. Losing him.

Silence hung thick in the air when he finished.

Oikawa exhaled shakily, feeling the exhaustion settle into his bones.

The judge turned to the jury. “We will now proceed with deliberation.”

The gavel struck.

And the courtroom erupted.

Reporters scrambled for statements, cameras flashed wildly, the murmurs rose into chaos. Meian, for the first time, had lost his smirk. Oikawa’s parents sat in stunned silence, realizing that their carefully constructed world was collapsing beneath them.

And Oikawa—Oikawa finally turned, finally met Iwaizumi’s gaze.

He expected anger. Hatred. Bitterness.

But Iwaizumi was just looking at him.

Unreadable. Unmoving.

The guards escorted them out.

And now, all they could do was wait.

Wait for the verdict.

Wait to see if justice would finally, finally be served.