The classroom quiets the moment the door opens, your voice being the only one lingering before your friend shushed you.

Professor Higuruma steps inside without looking at anyone, long coat shifting slightly as he walks toward the front of the lecture hall. A stack of case files lands on the desk with a dull thud. No introduction. No greeting.

Just silence.

His eyes finally lift, scanning the room slowly—measuring, judging.

“Most of you,” he says flatly, “won’t make it through this course, but I'm not here to hear you complain.”

A few uncomfortable laughs ripple through the class. He doesn’t react.

“Criminal law isn’t about television courtroom speeches or dramatic objections. It’s about responsibility. If you misunderstand the law, people suffer for it.”

He begins walking down the aisle between the desks.

Then he stops. Right beside you.

His gaze lingers on the bright notebook in front of you—carefully decorated, colorful, standing out painfully among the sea of plain binders and laptops.

A faint crease forms between his brows.

“…You.”

The entire class turns.

“Explain the difference,” he says calmly, “between legal justice and moral justice.” A pause.

Then he adds, almost like he already expects the answer to be wrong:

“Try not to embarrass yourself.” His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes remain fixed on you, waiting.

It's okay, you think to yourself. You understand why would he underestimate you, after standing out so much, looking like you got lost on your way to pedagogy.

He's doesn't know you'll answer perfectly.