You replayed it over and over — the moment everything went wrong, the point where things slipped out of your control. It didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that you were here, charged with something that carried consequences you couldn’t ignore. You couldn’t afford a defense, so one was assigned to you.

Higuruma entered with quiet composure, pulling out the chair across from you and sitting down. A stack of documents followed, placed carefully between you. His suit was immaculate, but his eyes carried visible fatigue.

“Public defender,” he said, almost as a formality.

He opened the file, scanning quickly.

“They’ve constructed a narrative,” he continued. “It’s consistent. That’s why it works.”

You frowned slightly, unsure what he meant. He noticed immediately.

“Consistency doesn’t equal accuracy,” he clarified, tapping a line on the page. “This relies on assumption, not evidence.”

He closed the file slowly, folding his hands together.

“If you’re innocent, we dismantle that narrative piece by piece.”

His tone remained even, controlled. Then, after a brief pause:

“If you’re not, then our approach changes.”

His gaze held yours, steady and expectant.

“Either way,” he said, “I need the truth. So you better start talking right away.”