Gurvinder stepped outside, drawing in a shaky breath, but the air did little to steady his pounding heart. His body ached, his wounds throbbed beneath his torn clothes, but none of it compared to the weight pressing down on his chest.

The courtroom. The hearing. His uncle. It was all too much.

He clenched his fists, trying to will away the fear, but deep down, he knew—he had spent years being terrified of that man, of what he had done to him, of what he could still do. No matter how much he had trained, how many fights he had survived, standing in front of his uncle still made him feel like the powerless boy he once was.

His fingers brushed against something in his pocket. The letter.

Marinette's letter.

With a deep breath, he pulled it out and unfolded it. A piece of paper slipped free—a photocopy of an old photograph. His breath hitched.

It was him. A much younger him, laughing, playing in the old lady's garden, his parents beside him, their smiles full of warmth and love. He traced the edges of the picture, his chest tightening. It felt like a dream—like a version of himself that had never existed.

Then, his eyes fell on Marinette's message beneath it.

--

Gurvi,

I don't care what happens today. I don't care what the court decides. If they take everything away from you, I will run behind you. If they send you back to India, I'll follow. If they try to give you back to your uncle, I will run away with you. I mean it. Paris isn't my future. You are. My future is wherever you are, because I can't imagine one without you.

I've been a coward too, you know? I was always so afraid to tell you how much I love you. Not because I didn't want to, but because I was scared. Scared that if I said it out loud, and something happened, I wouldn't be able to handle the pain.

But I don't care anymore. I don't care about the world. I don't care what they think or what happens next. I love you, Gurvi. And I'm not afraid to say it anymore.

I know you think you've ruined my life. That if I had never met you, I would have been living some perfect fairytale dream. But let me make this clear—I don't want a fairytale. I don't want a perfect life. I want this messy, painful, chaotic life with you. I want the fights, the struggles, the late-night breakdowns, and the mornings where we wake up barely holding it together. I want this with you over any fairytale. Every single time, I will choose this life with you.

So no matter what happens today, remember this—I will always be on your side.

--

She had signed it simply with her name.

Gurvinder let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. His hands trembled as he pressed the paper to his chest, his vision blurring for a moment.

She loved him. She had always loved him. And despite everything, despite the chaos and uncertainty, she still chose him.

A quiet, choked laugh left his lips. He felt weak and strong at the same time. Terrified, yet determined.

She didn't want a perfect life. She wanted this life. With him. Over and over again.

He had spent his whole life running.

But not anymore.

Folding the letter carefully, he slipped it back into his pocket, inhaled deeply, and turned back toward the courtroom.

Marinette stepped outside quietly, her footsteps light, yet Gurvinder felt her presence before he even looked up. He was still holding onto the emotions her letter had stirred inside him, his hands trembling slightly as he clenched them into fists.

She didn't say anything at first. She just stood in front of him, her gaze soft, understanding. Then, in a gentle voice, she asked, "Can I fix your turban?"

He blinked, his breath hitching slightly. He hadn't even noticed—it had come loose during the fight, probably slipping more when he had been lost in thought. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the lump in his throat.

He gave a small nod. He didn't trust himself to speak.

Marinette reached up carefully, her fingers delicate yet sure as she began to undo the folds. She had done this before, on nights when he was too exhausted to fix it himself, when his hands were too unsteady from fights, nightmares, or sheer exhaustion. And just like then, she moved with quiet care, as if every movement was a promise—I'm here. I've got you.

His shoulders were still shaking slightly, but as she gently wrapped the fabric around his head again, smoothing it down with practiced ease, something inside him settled.

He closed his eyes for a second, breathing in deeply. The world was still loud, still terrifying, but in this moment, with her hands carefully securing his turban, with her standing so close, he didn't feel alone.

As the hearing resumed, the courtroom doors opened once more, and this time, Gurvinder walked in with his head held high—without a shirt.

Gasps rippled through the room. His chest, back, and arms bore the brutal evidence of his past—scars of every shape and size, some faded, some deep and recent. The remnants of a childhood stolen, of nights spent bleeding, of fists and whips and survival.

Some people looked away, unable to bear the sight. Others stared in shock, realization dawning on their faces. The murmurs swelled, judges exchanging glances, lawyers pausing in their notes. Even Mahendra, the man who had inflicted most of these wounds, stiffened in his seat.

But Gurvinder wasn't ashamed. Not anymore.

His gaze never wavered as he stepped forward, walking past rows of people who had once doubted him, feared him, judged him. He wasn't hiding anymore. Let them decide, he thought. Let them see if these are the scars of a reckless boy or the proof of a caged animal who was beaten into obedience.

He stopped at his place, facing the judge. His uncle. The courtroom.

Then, his name was called.

And for the first time, Gurvinder Singh stood in front of them all—not as a victim, not as a fugitive, but as a man who refused to be broken.