Chapter Text
2019.
The student conference room at Malmö’s University campus buzzes with caffeine and chatter, the hum of soft ambient music mingling with the tap-tap of laptop keys.
Sunlight filters through the tall windows, catching on the glossy surfaces of name tags and water bottles. A sea of blazers and button-downs fills the space, every student trying to outdo the one next to them in silence.
At the very back of the room, Simon drapes himself across a plastic chair like he’s trying to hide from everyone else. One of his sneakers bounces idly against his backpack. He is watching the newest The Good Place episode on his best friend's Ayub’s cracked phone with the volume as low as it can get without being on silent while his other best friend Rosh leans over a pile of binders with a coffee cup that looks comically oversized for her hand.
They don’t belong here, and they know it.
They aren’t from any of the prestigious private law schools from all over the country like most of the people in the room. They come from Stockholm University, big and competitive but public.
The three of them are only here because their professor has offered them extra credit for attending, but more importantly, he offered them a weekend away from their parents.
It feels almost like they are on vacation, except they are expected to attend lectures and socialise.
“This is hell,” Ayub says with a wince, his eyes scanning the room. “Rich people hell. Everyone here looks like they sleep in their dress shirts.”
Simon snorts, shakes his head. “If they even sleep. They’re vampires. Vampire lawyers.”
“Guys,” Rosh cuts in, nudging Ayub’s elbow and nodding to the front of the room, where a woman in a crisp navy pantsuit steps up to the podium. “Looks like the Hunger Games are about to begin.”
Sure enough, the facilitator taps the mic and smiles brightly. “Welcome, everyone. We’re about to assign your mock trial partners. Remember, you’ll be representing each other in front of a student jury this weekend, so take it seriously. This exercise is a significant part of your final score.”
“Oh my god,” Ayub groans dramatically, throwing his head back. “We are actually in hell. There’s socialising involved.”
Simon sighs, locking Ayub’s phone and sitting up straighter as the list of names begins.
“Simon Eriksson and Wilhelm Backlund,” the facilitator announces.
Simon blinks. “Backlund?”
Both Rosh and Ayub turn to stare at him at once. Rosh whispers, “Thee Backlunds? Like, Ludvig and Kristina Backlund?”
Simon’s brain stalls. The Backlunds are practically royalty in the Swedish legal world. There are libraries named after them. Trusts. Scholarships. His sister once jokingly asked him if he would marry into the family just to get free tuition.
And then, as if summoned by reputation alone, Wilhelm Backlund rises from the middle row with the confidence of someone used to being watched.
He looks like he has stepped out of a lawyer generator machine. He has perfect posture, a white button up shirt tailored and ironed with military precision, his collar is crisp and uncreased. His dark blonde hair is parted with unsettling symmetry, his brown eyes sharp and determined.
He turns, locks eyes with Simon like a sniper, and starts to walk over.
Simon's palms are sweaty as he stands to meet him, smiling without teeth as he deliberately tries to straighten his back to stand taller. He offers his hand first, going for casual. “Hey. I’m Simon.”
Wilhelm takes his hand with the expression of someone forced to touch a public restroom door. “I know,” he says, cool and collected, he gives him one measured shake. “We’re working together.”
“Yep.”
Their assigned workspace is a glass-walled meeting room overlooking the main quad, all sleek lines and sterile modern furniture, the kind of place that practically screams future corporate boardroom. Outside, well-dressed students stroll by with portfolios and pressed blazers, as if this is a courtroom already, not just a mock trial for extra credit in their degree.
Wilhelm enters first, his spine arrow-straight, and places his binder on the table with extra care. Every tab in it is color-coded, every printed case note is arranged in perfect alignment. He smooths the front cover once before flipping it open.
Simon watches him from the doorway, his shoulders stiff as he holds his backpack strap with one hand. He lingers a second too long, then steps in and tosses his backpack onto the nearest chair. The zipper is half-open, revealing a crushed bag of sour candy, a capped soda, and a notebook with a corner curled from water damage.
He knows it looks careless, compared to Wilhelm's shiny binder. But it’s all he's got.
He drags the chair out, sits, and pulls the notebook to him like that counts for something. Wilhelm doesn’t say anything for a second, but his disapproving and sharp eyes cut through the room anyway.
“Did you read the briefing materials?” he asks, already flipping to a tab marked with a green sticky tab.
Simon hesitates. “Yeah?"
He hasn’t. Not really. He skimmed it during lunch in the cafeteria while trying to balance his tray and keep his phone from dying while finishing his The Good Place episode. He caught the gist of Fourth Amendment, wrongful arrest, some civil liberties overlapping.
Wilhelm’s brow knits. "It’s about the Swedish application of US Fourth Amendment standards. This isn’t basic civil liberties stuff.”
“I said I read it,” Simon says slowly like Wilhelm is a child. He cracks open the soda with a hiss. “It’s not rocket science.”
He tries to sound like he's an asshole, but it comes out defensive anyway. He knows he's already on the back foot with Wilhelm Backlund. They shouldn't even be in the same room together. Their worlds are completely different.
Outside the glass, Ayub catches his eye from another table and gives him a mock-serious violin solo, complete with pantomimed sorrow. Simon fights a smile, biting the inside of his cheek until it hurts.
“Okay,” Wilhelm says, exhaling like he’s suppressing his frustration. He straightens in his seat, not that he needs to, and opens a second folder. “I’ve outlined a strategy. You’ll be representing me as the defendant. I’ve also prepared a short character sketch to help you understand the role.”
Simon blinks. “A character sketch?”
Wilhelm doesn’t look up. “It will help you with picking a tone and understanding the background, to guide your responses. I want you to be consistent with the narrative.”
“Seriously?” Simon scoffs, leaning forward. “It’s a mock trial, not a casting call. You know that, right?”
Wilhelm’s jaw tightens. Barely, but enough for Simon to see it. “If you’re not going to take this seriously…” He waves his hand.
“I am taking it seriously,” Simon says, almost screaming it at him. He sits up, pushing the soda aside. “I just don’t need a script.”
Wilhelm looks at him, really looks at him now, like he’s deciding whether that’s true or not. His expression is still unreadable, his hands are careful as he restacks and rearranges his papers.
“Fine,” he says at last, voice calm. “We’ll meet again at six. Please come prepared.”
He stands, slides his folders under one arm, and leaves before Simon can figure out what to say.
Simon does show up at six. Not fully prepared. But he’s here.
Ayub and Rosh's partners are more chill than Simon's and they are meeting in the morning, so they have a free evening. And instead of going out into town, they tag along, laughing about something Simon doesn’t catch as they walk into the glass room like it’s just another group study session.
For the first ten minutes, they entertain themselves by tossing gummy bears across the table, trying to land them in each other’s mouths. Rosh nails a perfect shot into Ayub’s nose and nearly falls out of her chair laughing.
Wilhelm tries to continue anyway, scrolling through his neatly organized spreadsheet of case law and highlighting sentences he finds important in green highlighter. His voice stays even, but his eyes keep flicking to the side.
The highlighter clicks shut like a weapon. “Okay,” he says with a deep exhale, pissed off. “Can we please have some focus?”
Simon is sprawled in his chair, his pen spinning between his fingers. He straightens a little, but the sarcasm is a reflex. “I am focused, dude.”
Wilhelm shoots him a look, his eyes dark. “On what?”
Simon opens his mouth, hesitates. He could try. Could explain that he actually wants to do well. That this whole system makes him feel like a fraud, and sitting across from someone like Wilhelm only makes it worse. But instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “Trying to figure out if your spine’s fused together or if you just choose to sit like that.”
Ayub snorts. Rosh giggles behind her sleeve.
Wilhelm doesn’t react. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. He just gathers his things, each movement clean and practiced. He stands without a word, his shirt doesn't have a single wrinkle, and walks to the door without looking back.
“Wait–” Simon starts, his hand half-lifted.
But Wilhelm is already gone. And the mess behind him suddenly feels less like a joke and more like a line Simon just shouldn't have crossed.
The next day, Simon arrives early. Earlier than he needs to. He tells himself it’s just to get a head start on Wilhelm, but the truth is that he barely slept.
His stomach has been in knots, and he’s been replaying yesterday in his head all night. Rosh and Ayub laughing, Wilhelm’s expression, the way he walked out like the whole thing wasn’t even worth the effort.
The conference room feels different without Ayub and Rosh messing around next to him. It’s quieter, the walls tall and empty.
He tugs at the collar of his oversized button-up, it's one of the only ones he owns that doesn’t have a fraying edge, and wishes he’d ironed it or at least ran it under a blow dryer this morning. It clings unevenly to his shoulders, and he feels every wrinkle on his sweaty skin.
It shouldn’t matter. This isn’t a real trial. Just extra credit.
But Wilhelm is already there, of course.
He’s seated at the glass table like it’s a board meeting, his posture is perfect, a neat stack of color-coded tabs fanned out in front of him. His blazer is folded over the back of his chair, crisp as ever, and he’s scribbling notes down. He doesn’t look up when Simon enters. He doesn't even blink.
“Hey,” Simon says, his voice is quieter than it usually is. He hesitates at the doorway before walking in, unsure whether to sit or stand or just leave and pretend he never showed up. He finally drops himself into the chair across from Wilhelm, clutching the strap of his backpack.
“Look… about yesterday. I’m sorry,” he says. “We were just messing around.”
“I don’t care,” Wilhelm replies, his brown eyes still glued to his notes.
Simon flinches, just a little. “Right. Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Still. I shouldn’t have done that."
Wilhelm doesn’t answer.
Simon sighs, pulls out a pad from his backpack, and places it on the table. No candy today. No Ayub. No Rosh. No safety net. Just him, a pen with a cracked cap, and a desperate urge not to fuck this up again.
This time, he actually reads the case summary. Carefully. Traces the lines with his thumb. Underlines a few points. He forces himself to stay focused, to push past the noise in his head and the heat rising in his chest.
The words start to actually mean something for him, not just as filler and text, but as something he might actually be good at if he tries hard enough.
Ten minutes pass in silence.
Then, without warning, Wilhelm speaks. Still not looking at him. “You made me look like a joke in front of the other groups.”
Simon blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
“You and your friends,” Wilhelm says, voice cool but stretched thin like his patience. “Laughing. Interrupting. You didn't even try.”
Simon frowns. His first instinct is to push back, to throw up a shield of sarcasm or shift the blame, to say it was Wilhelm's fault actually. But he doesn’t for some reason. Almost like something inside him tells him no.
Instead, he takes a deep breath in. “It wasn’t about you,” he says. “We were just… being stupid.”
“It was about me.” Wilhelm’s voice is almost angry now. “You’re my partner. That means what you do during this assignment reflects on me.”
Simon leans back, his eyes drifting over the notes Wilhelm has laid out so carefully, the color-coded tabs, the structure, the control. He sees it now, he really sees it.
Wilhelm Backlund wants to be perfect.
“Right,” he says, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. I guess… I didn’t think about it that way.”
“No,” Wilhelm says flatly. “I guess you didn’t.”
Simon stares at him then. Not just the perfectly combed hair and polished clothes and face, but what’s under all of it. There’s something else there, something raw and buried and anxious. It's not just about grades or credit.
It’s like Wilhelm has spent his whole life trying to be taken seriously. Like every moment is a test he refuses to fail. Like being seen as anything less than exceptional would mean ruin and shame to his last name.
And Simon, poor, messy, public school Simon, walked in and made him look like the punchline of a joke.
Simon sinks deeper into his seat, the weight of Wilhelm's eyes landing hard in his chest. He nods slowly, his own eyes on the floor. “Fine,” he says, his words sticky in his throat. “Let’s start over.”
The mock trial takes place that afternoon, in one of the larger study halls. There's about twenty rows of chairs, a big screen and even one of those floor to ceiling blackboards Simon's only seen in American movies.
It's a room full of other private school students like Wilhelm. And no students like Simon and his friends.
Simon stands next to Wilhelm at the defense table when it's time for their mock trial. His heart’s pounding. He's not nervous. Or or at least he's not only nervous. It’s something else. Shame, maybe. Or pride. Guilt, definitely.
But mostly, it’s that Wilhelm gave him another chance when he didn’t have to. And Simon is not going to waste it this time.
He hits every point in the brief that they prepared. Every one. He doesn’t over-perform or crack jokes or even look around for approval from Rosh and Ayub. He argues like it's a real case he cares for. Like he belongs.
He even quotes case law Wilhelm flagged in his perfect notes, weaving it into the narrative with a confidence he barely recognizes.
When a fake-jury member throws a curveball question, Simon doesn’t flinch. He thinks, he adapts, and he answers. Without looking to Wilhelm for help.
When it’s over, the facilitator gives them both a nod and a whispered, “Well done.” The room gives them a few half hearted claps.
Wilhelm clears his throat, straightens his blazer, smooths the fabric down, and says, “Thank you,” like he rehearsed it in his head.
Simon just exhales, biting back a smile and the pride blooming in his chest.
They get the full extra credit.
Outside, in the hallway, Wilhelm crosses his arms. Looks at Simon with something unreadable in his eyes. "You didn’t even take it seriously until today.”
Simon doesn’t shrug this time. Doesn’t smile. He meets Wilhelm’s gaze head-on. “I did.”
Wilhelm studies him. His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to decide whether that’s good enough for him. “Thanks.” He says, with the tiniest bit of sarcasm in his voice.
Simon gives a tired, honest smile. “You’re welcome.”
He turns and starts walking to the vending machines, digging in his pocket for change.
Behind him, Wilhelm lingers. Watching. And maybe he’s smiling too.
2024.
Simon adjusts his tie in his reflection on the window, his fingers fumbling with the knot for the third time. It isn’t even crooked, he just needs something to do with his hands.
The courtroom is silent. Polished oak benches are almost sparkling clean in the morning light. The air smells like wood polish and coffee.
He’s early, but he always is.
Nerves don't go away just because you've earned your seat. Two years out of law school and still Simon still feels like the underdog. Maybe because he is. Maybe because part of him always will be that poor boy trying to fit in.
He’s clawed his way here with all he had, scholarships, side jobs, sleepless night.
He used to be that poor boy but now he's a public prosecutor, representing the state in a high-profile labor fraud case. He's representing are warehouse workers. Most of them overworked immigrants that were handed contracts written on purpose to confuse them.
It’s the kind of case that lights something under his ribs, makes his belly fuzzy. It's the kind of case that reminds him why he wanted this life in the first place.
The door clicks open behind him. He doesn’t turn right away, he’s too caught in his own thoughts. But then he hears it, leather soles on marble tile, deliberate and calm.
He turns, and freezes.
Wilhelm Backlund walks in like he owns the fucking room.
His suit is dark green, tailored within an inch of its life. His lapels sharp around his neck. His hair is shorter than Simon remembers all those years ago, styled back with deliberate care, not a single strand out of place. His blue-light glasses rest neatly on his nose, and he carries a briefcase like it’s an extension of his arm.
The softness he had in Malmö when they met, the warm, boyish charm, is all gone. What’s left is all clean lines and cold composure. He looks handsome, rich, polished. Like a real Backlund.
Simon’s heart stutters once, hard. Of course.
Of course he’s here. Representing the CEO, no doubt. His name carries weight in this industry, in this entire country. The Backlunds are a dynasty of judges, legal scholars, and political advisors.
And Wilhelm, the golden boy of the next generation after his older brother Erik died. Is only twenty-two and running mommy’s firm.
Their eyes lock. Just for a second. Something sharp and unspoken surges in Simon’s chest. A punch of electricity. Years of buried tension uncoiling like wire.
“Eriksson,” Wilhelm says, placing his briefcase down with a thud. His voice is steady. Deeper than before. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Simon exhales loudly, forcing his shoulders to stay level. “Backlund. Disappointed?”
A smile, faint and familiar, curls Wilhelm’s lips. “Not at all. I like a challenge.”
Simon tries not to roll his eyes at him. He nods to the bench. “So. You’re defending exploitation now?”
“I’m representing the accused,” Wilhelm replies smoothly, rehearsed. “Everyone is entitled to defense. Isn’t that what we learned in Ethics?”
“Sure,” Simon says. “But I didn’t realize you took that class literally.”
That earns a quiet huff of amusement from Wilhelm. He tilts his head slightly. “Still cocky, Eriksson, I see.”
“And you’re still…” Simon gestures vaguely. "Handsome.”
Wilhelm’s eyes flicker, maybe surprised at the compliment. Or maybe at the fact that Simon said it at all. “It’s been a while.”
“Five years,” Simon says before he can stop himself. He clears his throat. “Not like I’m counting.”
"Right," Wilhelm smiles a little, nods. “I thought about reaching out. I found you on instagram.”
Simon swallows. “Why didn’t you?”
Before Wilhelm can answer, the heavy door swings open again and the judge enters, wearing black robes and a stern face. Looks like no patience for delays today.
“Gentlemen,” she says. “Take your places.”
They do. The trial begins.
Simon comes out swinging like he rehearsed. His voice is calm as he paints the picture of exhausted warehouse workers, confusing contracts, intimidation tactics. He introduces his witnesses with care, an older man who speaks broken Swedish, a young woman who breaks down when she remembers how her supervisor forced her to sign something she couldn’t read.
He watches the jury lean in, watches their faces shift with every testimony, full of empathy and cincern.
But Wilhelm is stern. He’s clinical, composed. He peels the case apart with precised logic, pointing out inconsistencies in timelines, holes in memory, gaps in paperwork. He never raises his voice. Never fumbles.
It’s maddening to watch. Simon's head is spinning. He wants to hate Wilhelm for how good he is.
But he can’t, really. Because underneath the frustration and jealousy he feels for a trust-fund baby like him, there's something else. Something visceral almost. Admiration. Resentment. Curiosity.
All tangled together in a way that makes him feel like that teenager he was in Malmö.
Wilhelm never looks at him during his testimony. Not once.
But Simon watches him constantly like he's hypnotised. He tracks the way his eyebrow furrows slightly when he's reading one of his notes. The way he taps his pen against his leg, always three times, before objecting.
They break for lunch before the lack of air can suffocate Simon.
Simon steps out into the hallway, his chest is tight, his mind is still spinning even after he takes a long breath.
The trial’s going better for him than he expected. But Wilhelm’s defense is starting to chip at things in his, small cracks that could widen if he’s not careful.
He’s pacing near the vending machine when he hears the door open again.
Wilhelm. He doesn’t speak right away. He just walks over and stands next to him, both of them staring at a machine full of overpriced protein bars and melting chocolate.
“You didn’t get any taller,” Wilhelm says, pressing the buttons on the machine, not looking at Simon.
Simon huffs at him, rolls his eyes while Wilhelm isn't watching. “You didn't get any nicer.”
That earns Simon a little a smile. Wilhelm picks B302. Macadamia and white chocolate cereal bar. A strong choice.
They are quiet for a few seconds. Then Wilhelm says, “You’re good in court, Eriksson.” before he bends down to grab his food.
Simon blinks, looking at the muscles under Wilhelm's suit. “Are you complimenting me?”
“I’m stating a fact,” Wilhelm says, opening his cereal bar and giving it a sniff. “Your argument this morning was powerful. You connected with them. The jury.”
Simon shifts his weight. “Thanks. You’re not bad either. For someone defending an asshole.”
"Do you think I only take cases like this for the money?” Wilhelm says, finally biting into the cereal bar.
“I think you like winning,” Simon replies, peeling his eyes away from Wilhelm's mouth. “And you don’t really care what side you’re on, as long as it gets you there.”
Wilhelm doesn’t deny it, he just exhales and says, “Maybe.”
Simon folds his arms. “Why this case?”
Wilhelm looks up at him. His eyes are unreadable. “Because the CEO is my godfather.”
Simon has to force himself not to roll his eyes again. Nepotism. Of-fucking-course. He sighs.
“I didn’t ask for the case,” Wilhelm says. “It landed on my desk. And I couldn’t say no.”
“That’s convenient,” Simon says.
Wilhelm nods. “I thought about it. Thought about asking someone else to handle it. But…”
“But what?”
Wilhelm meets his eyes. “But then I saw your name on the prosecutor’s brief,” he says with a little shrug like it's nothing. “And I didn’t want to miss it.”
Simon stares at him.
Wilhelm bites the rest of his cereal bar, trying for casual, but there’s something behind his eyes that isn’t casual at all. “You made that horrible university convention fun.”
Simon swallows his spit. “This isn’t a mock trial, Backlund.”
“I know,” he says. “But seeing you standing up there makes me want to do better like I'm being graded. Makes me want to–” He stops himself, closes his eyes like he's shaking it off.
Simon doesn’t push. He doesn’t have to. The air between them crackles like static.
“I was never upset at you,” Wilhelm says, after he opens his eyes, playing with the wrapper in his hands. “You know that, right?”
Simon looks at him. Really looks. At his face and his cheekbones and the scar under his eye. Wilhelm is handsome, frustratingly so.
“Yeah,” Simon says. “But it was easier to pretend you hated me.”
Wilhelm nods, sighing. “I know.”
A bailiff steps out into the hallway and calls them back in.
“Time to fight again,” Simon says, clearing his throat.
“Yeah,” Wilhelm whispers, smoothing his suit. “But just so you know…” He hesitates. “I’m not going easy on you.”
Simon smiles, biting the inside of his cheek. “I wouldn't want you to.”
Simon snaps by the third day.
It happens between sessions, during their break, technically, but there’s nothing restful about the way he almost runs through the corridor outside the courtroom, his fists clenched and jaw tight.
The hallway is all white lighting and empty benches, the only sound is the hum of the vending machines and the fluorescents.
Of course Wilhelm is standing next to the coffee machine with his arms crossed when Simon gets there. Why wouldn't he be? His tie is still perfect. Not a single blond hair out of place. He looks up when Simon approaches, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak.
So Simon does. “You don’t even believe your client.”
Wilhelm blinks once, caught off guard. “I believe in the law.”
Simon steps closer to him. Close enough to feel the tension in Wilhelm’s spine, the small hitch in his breath before he swallows it. “You should believe in more than that.”
“I don’t think you have a right to tell me what I should believe in,” Wilhelm says, raisinf his chin, towering over Simon.
Simon swallows. “You’re defending a man who knowingly underpaid dozens of workers. Who trapped them in contracts designed to confuse and control. How do you sleep at night knowing that?”
“I sleep fine,” Wilhelm replies.
Simon stares at his face, searching for any empathy or sign that Wilhelm is still human. “You win this, and he walks free. Nothing changes in the world. That doesn’t bother you?”
Wilhelm’s shoulders lift and fall with a slow, practiced breath. “I don’t make the system. I work in it.”
“No,” Simon snaps. “You hide in it.”
Wilhelm opens his mouth, his eyes sparkling with something, but the bailiff steps into the hallway and calls them back into the room.
Simon turns and walks away without another word.
“Some people,” Simon begins, “never get to be heard in rooms like this. The world decided a long time ago that they don’t matter enough.” He takes a step closer to the jury. Then another “These workers, my clients, they don’t ask for much. They’re not demanding fame or wealth or even comfort. They want what the law already says they’re entitled to. Minimum wage. Reasonable hours. Contracts they can read. Respect.”
He swallows. His voice trembles, but it holds “Look, I know how this works. I know the defense will tell you there’s no definitive proof. That the burden of evidence hasn’t been met. That it’s all just anecdotal and emotional and speculative.”
Simon pauses.
“But this isn’t just about numbers on a spreadsheet. It’s about people who scrub floors until their knees give out. Who clock out and keep working because they’re scared of losing the little they have. It’s about someone who came home one night and found their pay slashed in half with no explanation, and no one to fight for them.”
He gestures to Wilhelm’s client, seated at the defense table in a fancy suit almost bursting at the seams, checking his expensive Rolex under the desk. “It’s about the people who think they’re untouchable. Who think laws are just... suggestions. Who build empires on the backs of the invisible.”
Simon exhales. “You have a chance, right now, to tell them they’re wrong.”
He thanks the jury and sits.
The courtroom is dead silent.
Then Wilhelm stands and the whole room shifts, it's almost like everyone sits a little straighter. Like someone turned down the temperature.
He doesn’t walk around in a gloat. He doesn’t even move from behind the table. His voice is calm, clear, even gentle. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he begins, “what you’ve just heard is powerful. Moving, even. But what you must decide today is not whether you feel sympathy for the plaintiffs. It’s whether the prosecution has proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, that my client knowingly and willfully violated labor laws.”
He turns a single page in his binder. “They haven’t.” He lets it sit there. Just long enough for it to twist in Simon’s chest.
“They’ve given you stories. Emotion. Inconsistencies. Witnesses who remember things differently. Documents with missing dates. Contracts signed under conditions that were, at best, ambiguous. All of which is unfortunate… but none of which meets the standard of proof required by law.”
He walks to the jury now, slow and deliberate. “This case is not about morality. It is about legality. And no matter how persuasive the story, no matter how passionate the prosecutor…” he glances, very briefly, at Simon, “your decision must rest on facts. Not feelings.”
He turns one last time. And smiles. Just slightly. “That’s what makes the law fair. That’s what makes it strong.”
He thanks the court. And sits.
The judge returns with the ruling that afternoon. In favor of the defense. The CEO walks. Wilhelm wins.
Simon doesn’t stay for the photos. Doesn’t wait for the jurors to write anything down. Doesn’t listen to Wilhelm speaking to reporters with that same cadence, that polite gratitude, that legal detachment that makes Simon want to scream at him.
He walks straight through the back exit of the courtroom, down a flight of stairs, and ducks into a side stairwell, his fingers pressed to his temples.
His tie’s still knotted, his shirt collar damp with sweat. He leans against the cold wall, staring at the floor like it might give him an answer he didn’t already know.
The system works, they always say. But who does it work for?
Certainly not for the workers who sat on that bench for three days, quietly hoping someone in power might finally see them.
Not for Simon, who gave everything he had to a system that protected loopholes better than people. And not, he suspects, for Wilhelm either.
Because no matter how cool Wilhelm had looked up there, how sharp and poised and lawyer-perfect he was. Simon saw it.
In the hallway. In his eyes. A flicker. A crack.
And now, standing alone in a stairwell, Simon doesn’t know what pisses him off more. That he lost the case. Or that part of him still wants to go find Wilhelm and ask why it felt like he lost something, too.
He drops onto his couch like the trial physically beat him up. His body actually hurts. His shoulders ache from three days of tension. His spine crackles when he leans back, as if it’s relieved to surrender to something soft after hours of rigid posture.
His suit jacket slips from his shoulder and crumples to the floor, stained at the cuff from the shitty coffee from that shitty machine. He doesn’t pick it up. He doesn’t move at all, really.
He just stares at the ceiling of his small apartment, where the plaster is cheap and aging. The room is dim now, lit only by the orange glow of the streetlamp outside. Shadows crawl along the floorboards.
Outside, Stockholm is alive, trams, sirens, a motorbike speeding somewhere it shouldn’t. But inside his apartment, inside his chest, everything is still.
He exhales. “I’m never doing that again,” Simon says to the ceiling. His voice sounds unfamiliar like it didn't come from him.
That. That doesn’t just mean the trial. It means letting Wilhelm Backlund into his bloodstream like a virus. It means letting himself unravel, emotionally, intellectually, in front of a jury, in front of colleagues, students, the fucking press.
Simon presses a hand over his eyes. The skin under his fingertips is warm. He can still hear Wilhelm’s voice.
Simon remembers the way he stood there during closing arguments, watching Wilhelm dismantle his case piece by piece. Not with passion. Not even with satisfaction. Just precision. Like it was easy.
And maybe it was easy, for someone like him.
For someone who never had to raise his voice to be taken seriously. Who never had to explain why the law should be just, not just sound like it. Who never had to beg the system to see people as people.
Wilhelm didn’t even gloat after the ruling. He didn’t have to. His silence was louder than anything he would've said. Louder than the cameras outside. Louder than Simon’s own pulse in his ears when he ducked out the back and escaped to this, his apartment, his couch, his own space.
Losing a case isn’t what he hates the most.
It’s the fact that it meant something . That this stupid, exhausting trial meant something to him because Wilhelm was standing on the other side because he saw that Simon was in this case too.
Because he still wanted to be seen by Simon. Not just as a the golden boy. As Wilhelm.
Simon clenches his jaw.
He hates that Wilhelm gets to walk out of the courthouse with his tie still perfect and his win intact and probably some dinner reservation waiting with people who still believe the law is a meritocracy.
He hates how Wilhelm looked at him in the hallway. He hates the way that Wilhelm said Simon is the one that makes him want to argue.
It hurts.
“I’m never doing that again,” Simon says again, louder now. He forces himself upright, rakes a hand through his sweaty curls, and repeats it like he's making a vow, “I'm never doing that again."
He shrugs off the rest of his shirt and drops it over the back of a chair. The fabric is wrinkled. Damp under the arms. He doesn’t care. The room is quiet, but the promise lingers, sharp and certain in the stillness.
Not again.
Especially not with Wilhelm fucking Backlund.