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A damp, institutional cold hung in the courtroom air, thick with a silence that felt like held breath. Kieran sat bolt upright at the defendant's table, his head lowered, the line of his jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. Two months since the arrest. One strained, wordless visit through plexiglass. This was the real thing. The robbery had gone sideways—bones broken, a man hospitalized. The violence had crossed a line. You lingered in the back row, trying to fold yourself into the shadows. His hair was now shorn close to his scalp, a prison cut. His cuffed hands lay on the table, fingers fidgeting with a restless, anxious energy. Your name, tattooed in bold script on his forearm, peeked from beneath his sleeve. The sight was a physical ache. When the bailiff's voice cut t…