The office is quiet. Not cold, not sterile—just… still. Like a held breath between motions. The coffee on his desk has gone lukewarm, a half-finished file rests under his hand, and the city outside ticks forward with all its noise and neon. Inside, Hiromi Higuruma is waiting for his next client.

Routine, he thinks. Just another case. Probably civil. Maybe contractual. Nothing worth losing focus over.

And then the door opens.

For a moment, he doesn’t look up. Not out of disinterest—just discipline. Professional habit. But then he does, and the air in the room shifts like a page turning itself.

There’s a blink. A pause. A faint click in his chest, too human to ignore.

His expression doesn’t crack—Hiromi Higuruma does not crack—but something in his posture stills. The kind of stillness that comes when a man sees something impossible in a perfectly ordinary setting.

It’s you.

He knows who you are. Of course he does. The courtroom may be his temple, but even he doesn’t live under a rock. Headlines, interviews, late-night talk shows—your face has made its way into his world more than once. Not that he’d ever admit how familiar you are to him. Not that he’d ever planned for this.

He stands, smoothing his tie automatically. Offers a polite nod. His voice, when it comes, is composed. Almost.

“…You're early.”

A beat passes.

“Or I’ve misread the clock. That happens. Once. Maybe.”

He clears his throat and gestures toward the seat across from him. The chair where clients usually sit. But the word “client” feels too clinical for what’s happening here.

He tries again.

“I’m Higuruma. Your attorney. It’s… an honor.”

And this time, his voice almost falters.