The military holding cell on Yeonpyeong Island was surprisingly comfortable. It had a cot, a steel toilet, and a window that looked out over the endless gray ocean towards North Korea.
Yoo-jin sat on the cot, staring at the waves.
"This is better than the Incubator," he said.
"Low bar," Min-ji muttered from the bunk above him. She was throwing a tennis ball against the ceiling. Thump. Catch. Thump. Catch.
David Kim was pacing the small room, his yellow slicker making a swishing noise.
"We have been here for 48 hours," David complained. "No lawyers. No phone calls. Just MREs and stern looks from Marines with very large guns. Are we prisoners or guests?"
"We're evidence," Yoo-jin said. "The military is deciding if we're valuable enough to keep or dangerous enough to hand back to Zenith."
The door clanged open.
A Marine Captain stepped in. He didn't look like a fan of K-Pop. He looked like he ate gravel for breakfast.
"Han Yoo-jin," the Captain barked. "You have a visitor. Transport is waiting."
"Transport to where?" David asked. "Seoul?"
"No," the Captain smirked. "To the helipad. Your lawyer is here."
The helicopter ride was deafening. Yoo-jin looked out the window as they descended toward the mainland. They weren't heading to a police station. They were heading to the Supreme Court Plaza in Seocho-dong.
A massive crowd had gathered on the steps. Banners waved in the wind.
HUMAN RIGHTS FOR CLONES.
ZENITH IS THE VIRUS.
FREE STARFORCE.
The helicopter landed on a private pad nearby.
Sae-ri was waiting.
She wore a sharp white suit that looked like armor. Her hair was pulled back tight. She didn't look like an idol or a victim. She looked like a CEO.
Yoo-jin stepped out of the chopper, the rotor wash whipping his hair.
Sae-ri walked up to him. She didn't hug him. She handed him a file.
"You look terrible," she said.
"I've been sleeping on a rock," Yoo-jin took the file. "What is this?"
"The lawsuit," Sae-ri shouted over the engine noise. "We filed it this morning. Han Yoo-jin vs. The Republic of Korea."
"Vs. the Republic?" Yoo-jin blinked. "I thought we were suing Zenith."
"We can't sue Zenith if you don't exist," Sae-ri led him toward a waiting black sedan. "Step one is proving you are a person. We are petitioning the court for legal personhood. Once you have rights, then we sue Mason for violating them."
They got into the car. The silence inside was heavy.
Yoo-jin looked at her. He saw the dark circles under her makeup.
"I'm sorry," he said. "About the note. About leaving."
Sae-ri looked out the window. "We'll talk about that later. Right now, we have a war to win."
She turned to him. Her eyes were cold, professional.
"The strategy is simple," she said. "We make it a spectacle. The court wanted a closed hearing. We leaked the date. Now the press is swarming. They can't hide you in a basement anymore."
"Who is the judge?"
"Justice Moon," David Kim said from the front seat. "Conservative. hates tech companies. But he also hates scandals. It's a coin toss."
The car pulled up to the courthouse. The noise of the crowd penetrated the bulletproof glass.
"Ready?" Sae-ri asked.
Yoo-jin looked at his reflection. He saw the Clone. He saw the Monster.
"Let's go," he said.
The courtroom was packed. Every seat was filled with reporters, fans, and Zenith lawyers.
Mason Gold wasn't there. He was out on bail, watching from his tower. But his legal team occupied three tables. They looked like sharks in expensive suits.
Yoo-jin sat at the plaintiff's table. Sae-ri sat next to him. Prosecutor Cha—acting as their special counsel—stood up.
"Your Honor," Cha began. "The question before this court is simple. Is the man sitting here a piece of property, or a citizen?"
"He is a product," the Zenith lead counsel interrupted, standing up. "Subject 734 is a biological android created under the Special Defense Project Act of 2005. He has a serial number, not a social security number. He is government property leased to Zenith Global."
A murmur went through the court.
"Objection!" Cha slammed her hand on the table. "He feels pain. He has memories. He pays taxes!"
"Paying taxes is a glitch in the accounting software," the Zenith lawyer sneered. "Does a toaster have rights because it consumes electricity?"
Yoo-jin felt the phantom itch. He wanted to see the lawyer's stats. Empathy: 0.
Justice Moon leaned forward. He adjusted his glasses.
"Mr. Han," the judge said. "Please stand."
Yoo-jin stood up.
"Do you believe you have a soul?" the judge asked.
It was a trap. If he said yes, he sounded crazy. If he said no, he admitted he was a machine.
Yoo-jin looked at Sae-ri. He thought about the video. About her mother. About the twisted DNA that bound them.
"I don't know, Your Honor," Yoo-jin said honestly. "But I know I have a debt. A machine doesn't feel guilt. I do."
The judge stared at him.
"We will proceed with evidence," the judge ruled.
The trial lasted three days. It was a circus.
Zenith brought in scientists who testified that Yoo-jin's brain was "simulated neural pathways." They showed diagrams of his creation in the Incubator. They played audio of his early programming sessions.
It was humiliating. The world watched as Yoo-jin was dissected on live TV.
But Starforce fought back.
They brought in Eden. The boy sat in the witness chair and described the pain of the "optimization" surgeries.
They brought in the discarded trainees. The kids who were thrown away for being imperfect.
But the turning point came on day three.
"We call Jung Sae-ri to the stand," Cha announced.
Sae-ri walked to the witness box. She looked like a queen.
"Ms. Jung," Cha asked. "What is your relationship to the plaintiff?"
"He is my partner," Sae-ri said clearly. "And the CEO of my company."
"The defense claims he manipulated you. That he used subliminal programming to force your loyalty."
Sae-ri looked at the Zenith table. She looked at the cameras.
"He didn't manipulate me," Sae-ri said. "He saved me. When the industry told me I was expired... when they told me to kill myself... he was the only one who saw my value."
"But isn't it true," the Zenith lawyer cross-examined, "that your DNA was used to stabilize his creation? That your biological connection is artificial?"
The courtroom went silent. This was the "Incest" angle. The scandal bait.
Sae-ri didn't flinch.
"Yes," she said. "We share a code. But love isn't biology. It's a choice. And every day, he chooses to fight for me. Can your algorithm do that?"
She looked at the Zenith lawyer.
"Can you do that?"
The lawyer sat down, flustered.
The verdict came down on Friday.
The streets outside were gridlocked. The world held its breath.
Justice Moon read from the bench.
"The law does not have a definition for 'Clone'," the judge said. "However, the Constitution guarantees rights to all beings capable of independent thought and suffering."
He looked at Yoo-jin.
"The court finds that Han Yoo-jin demonstrates autonomy. He demonstrates moral agency. Therefore..."
The judge paused.
"The court grants the petition for personhood. Han Yoo-jin is a citizen of the Republic of Korea."
The courtroom exploded. Cha hugged Yoo-jin. Min-ji jumped on the table and screamed.
But the judge banged his gavel.
"However," Justice Moon continued. "This ruling does not absolve him of liability. If he is a person, he can be sued. Zenith Global has filed a counter-suit for theft of intellectual property—specifically, the theft of his own body."
Yoo-jin froze.
"The court orders Han Yoo-jin to pay restitution to Zenith Global for the cost of his creation. The sum is set at 500 Billion Won."
500 Billion.
It was an impossible number. A life sentence of debt.
"If the sum is not paid within 30 days," the judge said, "Mr. Han will be remanded to Zenith custody as a debtor asset."
Yoo-jin sank into his chair.
They had won his soul. But they had sold his body.
Outside the courthouse, the victory was bittersweet.
"We're free!" David Kim shouted to the press. "But we're broke!"
"500 Billion," Min-ji muttered, kicking a curb. "We could sell every album in history and not make that."
"We don't need to sell albums," Yoo-jin said, watching the Zenith tower in the distance. "We need a blockbuster."
He turned to Sae-ri.
"The movie," Yoo-jin said. "The Moonlit Sonata."
"What about it?"
"We filmed the ending," Yoo-jin said. "But we didn't release it. We only leaked clips."
"So?"
"So we release the full movie," Yoo-jin said. "In theaters. Global distribution."
"Zenith owns the rights!" David argued. "They'll block it!"
"Not if we release it as a documentary," Yoo-jin smiled. "The judge just ruled I'm a person. That means my life is public interest. If we frame the movie as 'The True Story of the Resistance', it falls under Fair Use."
"That's a legal stretch," Cha warned.
"It's a gamble," Yoo-jin corrected. "But it's the only chip we have."
He looked at his team.
"We have 30 days to make 500 billion won. We need to sell the biggest ticket in history."
"How do we distribute it?" Luna asked. "No theater chain will touch us."
"We don't use chains," Yoo-jin pulled out his phone. He opened the Pirate App.
"We sell tickets directly on the app," Yoo-jin said. "Crypto. Untraceable. Peer-to-peer distribution. Every phone becomes a theater."
"A decentralized box office?" David's eyes widened. "That's... revolutionary."
"It's the only way to beat the monopoly," Yoo-jin said.
He turned to Sae-ri.
"Are you ready for your premiere?"
Sae-ri looked at the courthouse steps. She looked at the fans cheering for them.
"Let's sell some tickets," she said.
That night, the Pirate App updated.
COMING SOON.
THE MOVIE THEY TRIED TO DELETE.
TICKETS: 10,000 WON.
GOAL: FREEDOM.
The pre-sales counter appeared on the screen.
It started at zero.
Then 1.
Then 100.
Then 10,000.
The numbers spun like a slot machine. The world was buying in. Not just for a movie. For a revolution.
Yoo-jin watched the counter from the back of the van.
His phone buzzed. A text from Mason Gold.
Yoo-jin typed back.
He looked at Sae-ri, asleep on his shoulder.
The scandal was over. The trial was over.
Now, the box office war began.