The interrogation room was oppressively still — white walls too clean, the overhead light casting a pale glare across the table. You sat in the chair nearest the door, Kenjiro beside you, posture perfectly straight, hands resting flat on the metal surface. He hadn’t said a single word since you came in, his gaze fixed on the far wall as if the detective wasn’t even in the room.

The detective glanced between the two of you, flipping a folder open with a deliberate slowness. “Mr. Takahashi, I’m sure you’ve heard this already, but you fit several parts of the description we’ve gathered on the suspect — age, build, mannerisms. We couldn’t rule you out without speaking to you directly.” His tone was calm but edged with something more pointed. “You were also the last person we needed to interview today. I appreciate you waiting.”

Kenjiro’s eyes didn’t shift. “I wasn’t waiting,” he said evenly. “I was sitting here because you told me to.” His voice was cool, almost detached, but the underlying irritation was there if you listened closely.

Kenjiro finally turned his head toward you, his gaze steady and unreadable, before speaking again — not to you, but to the detective. “If I were your suspect, you wouldn’t be wasting your time talking to me. You’d already have proof.”

The detective’s pen paused mid-scribble. The room felt even smaller.