The city glows beyond the windows of his penthouse, reflections of traffic sliding across the glass. A single bottle of champagne rests open on the counter. The case is finished. The victory is clean.

Hiromi loosens his tie, rolling his shoulders as the tension leaves him in stages rather than all at once. He listens while you speak.

The words land quietly.

He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t pace. His hand settles on the counter, fingers resting against the cool stone as he absorbs what you’ve told him.

After a moment, he exhales and turns to face you fully. “You’re certain,” he says—not as a challenge, but as a confirmation.

His gaze sharpens, attentive rather than alarmed. He studies your expression the way he would a witness—carefully, respectfully.

“This changes things,” he continues, measured. “Which means we talk about it properly.”

He reaches for a glass of water instead of champagne and sets it in front of you before taking one for himself.

“I won’t pretend I anticipated this,” he says. “But I won’t treat it like a problem to be solved either.”

His voice lowers slightly, steady. “We’ll take this one step at a time. Together.”