•MARCH 5, 1970
Vintamio Corazon sat at the defense table, his hands clasped tightly together. His suit, though pressed and proper, could not mask the weariness etched into his face. The courtroom buzzed with whispers, spectators craning to catch a glimpse of the young man whose crime had captivated the city. His mother, Verohn, sat silently in the gallery, her stoic expression betraying none of the storm raging inside her.
The prosecutor painted a grim picture, emphasizing the brutality of the act. “A knife, Your Honor, plunged into Giovenco Martire’s chest. In an alley, during Carnival—murder, plain and simple.” The words hung in the air, a specter haunting Vintamio.
His lawyer, a seasoned defender hired by Verohn, rose to counter the claims. “The truth of this case is more complex. My client, Vintamio Corazon, acted under duress. He was forced into an impossible situation by members of a criminal faction. He had no choice.”
The argument was met with skepticism. There were no witnesses to corroborate the claim of coercion, no evidence beyond Vintamio’s trembling admission to his mother. The prosecutor seized on this.
“Duress?” the prosecutor scoffed. “Where is the proof? Where are the bruises, the threats, the witnesses? This is a man who killed his own lover in cold blood.”
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Vintamio flinched at the words. His head dropped, and for a moment, the courtroom seemed to collapse around him. Giovenco’s face flashed in his mind—his smile, his warmth, the way he had whispered dreams of a future they could share. That future had been stolen by a blade in Vintamio’s hand, a blade he never wanted to wield.
•THE MURDER
In his cell, Vintamio had relived the events countless times. The SLIG-affiliated gang had cornered him and Giovenco, their masks hiding faces twisted with malice. They had dragged the couple into an alley, jeering and taunting.
“Choose,” one of them sneered, pressing the knife into Vintamio’s hand. “Kill him, or we kill you both.”
Giovenco had met his gaze, his eyes wide with fear but filled with love. “Do it,” he had whispered. “Save yourself.”
The memory tore at Vintamio’s soul. The cold metal of the knife, the trembling of his hands, the desperate, tearful goodbye—they were etched into his very being. He had plunged the blade into Giovenco’s chest, his own scream swallowed by the Carnival’s revelry.
•BACK IN THE COURTROOM
The defense’s closing argument pleaded for understanding. “Vintamio Corazon is not a monster. He is a victim—of societal hatred, of criminal manipulation, of a world that forces people like him into the shadows. He did what he thought he had to do to survive. I ask you to see the man behind the act, to recognize his humanity.”
The jury deliberated for hours, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on everyone in the room. When they returned, their faces were grim.
The judge read the sentence: one year in prison with no parole, followed by three years in a mental institution for rehabilitation. It was lenient by legal standards, but it was a punishment that carried its own burden.
Vintamio felt the walls closing in as the gavel struck. His mother’s gaze, steady and unwavering, met his as he was led away.