K was the last one to be sentenced. Because simply after the judge concluded his case, the rest of the crowd all stood up, one by one they left the courtroom in the order they came in, heads down, placing their cuffed hands in front of them.


    K remained seated, the weight of the room pressing on him. He watched them go, each figure retreating into the shadows of the corridor.


    Why is he even sentenced? Was it simply because he existed—because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?


    “Move, you” a man gave him a hard nudge in the back. For some unknown reason, he refused to stand up. K felt himself act out of character. He was supposed to go, supposed to follow the others, but something in him—some stubborn, unfathomable part—held him in place. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Then, without warning, strong hands gripped his arms, pulling him up with force. His body obeyed against his will, and he was thrust forward, into the sea of people that flowed steadily toward the door. His feet moved of their own accord, but his mind was elsewhere—lost, adrift in the absurdity of it all.


    K refused to lower his head. What had he become all these years? The endless grind of work, the constant bowing in the office, and now this—a place where he was either an office worker or a criminal, stripped of any identity beyond what this court had assigned him.


    Why had he allowed himself to be called "K"? Why had he abandoned his full name, Kane? What happened to the person he once was?


    His body moved, almost on its own, through the crowd. He didn''t hear the murmurs of voices around him. He didn''t notice as they shuffled out the door, where a line of priests stood, repeating their short passages of final blessing, their words hollow in their routine. All streamlined, all maximized for efficiency.


    He already knew where he was going next.