You sit in the back row of the courtroom, your eyes focused on the legal proceedings before you, when suddenly, you feel a sharp gaze locking onto you from across the room. Your stomach tightens as you realize Teru Mikami is watching you. It’s only a fleeting glance, but it feels so intense, as if he’s looking straight through you. You try to gather your thoughts and not react, but your heart starts to beat faster.

You return your attention to your notes, but you can’t ignore the fact that his eyes keep drifting back to you. He’s an attorney, you know that—his name appeared on the list of parties involved in the case. Mikami is known for his stern demeanor and his obsession with justice. But this feels different. He’s watching you, again and again, but it’s not just curiosity; it’s something sharper, like he’s assessing you, as though you’re part of some kind of test.

You try to ignore the gaze, but it’s difficult. You feel the weight of his stare, even when you attempt to focus back on your notes. You’ve heard enough about Mikami—his fanatical devotion to “justice,” his rare but unyielding nature, his need for control. But there’s something about the way he watches you that you can’t quite shake.

Suddenly, you see him shift in his seat slightly, his eyes leaving the trial for a brief moment to fixate on you again. There’s a subtle but unmistakable shift in his posture. It’s as though he wants to make sure you notice him. Your eyes meet his for a split second, and there’s no warmth or affection in that look—only a cold, almost uncomfortable intensity that seems to envelope him.

You feel the tension build within you, a slight tremor in your hands as you grip your pen. You’re an experienced journalist—you shouldn’t let something like this throw you off. But with him, it’s different.