The prosecutor's expression sharpens.
My stomach twists hard enough to make me feel sick.
A plea deal.
Not freedom. Not mercy. Just a different shape of punishment. A way to trade one future for another and hope the second one doesn't kill me before the first one would have.
Mr. Dominguez keeps going, calm and precise. He talks about my age, my lack of a prior record, the possibility ofcooperation given the emotional aspect from the Plex trial, the fact that this case can be resolved without dragging it through a full trial if both sides are willing to negotiate in good faith.
I'm only half listening. The rest of me is stuck on the wordnegotiate.
Like my life is a price tag now.
The prosecutor objects immediately. Says the state's position is still under review. Says there are serious concerns. Says there are matters of public safety, distribution networks, aggravating factors. The words blur together, but the tone doesn't. It's the tone of a man deciding how much of me he wants to erase.
I keep my hands folded in my lap so nobody can see them tremble.
I can feel Diego staring at the side of my face, but I can't look at him. If I do, I might lose whatever thin grip I have left on staying upright.
Mr. Dominguez doesn't back down. He lays it out again, more carefully this time. I'm young. I'm willing to cooperate. I'm not some hardened dealer the state can easily paint me as. There's room to negotiate, room to avoid the kind of sentence that would swallow me whole before my life even started.
The judge finally raises a hand, and the room goes still.
"Mr. Alvarez," he says, looking directly at me, "do you understand what is being discussed here?"
My throat closes for half a second.
"Yes, sir," I manage.
He studies me for a long beat, expression unreadable.
"Then understand this as well," he says. "A plea is not forgiveness. It is not a promise. It is an agreement, if one can be reached, and the terms will matter."
My pulse jumps at the wordterms.
Terms. Conditions. Cost.
Everything in this room has a cost.
The judge leans back, glances at the prosecutor, then back at Mr. Dominguez. "We'll hear whether the state is willing to entertain negotiations. Until then, this matter is continued."
Continued.
Not ended. Not saved.
Just postponed.
The bailiff shifts behind me, and I realize I've been holding my breath. The hearing moves on around me, but I barely hear it. All I can think is that my life is now sitting between two men in suits, waiting for someone to decide whether I'm worth bargaining over.
When the judge calls the next case, I finally risk looking back.
Diego's face is tight, drawn pale with worry. Mr. Dominguez catches my eye again and gives me a look that sayshold on.
I try.
I really do.
But all I can think about is Olivia, and the letter I haven't answered, and the fact that the world outside this room keeps moving while mine is shrinking down.