There's a saying that goes, “One must die many times before one can truly live,” and yours resonated delicately with that poignant adage.

Being at the mercy of one whose malevolence is an inherent part of them, a typical phrase questioning whether society shapes humans into malevolence or if humanity inherently inclines that way. It scarcely mattered.

Each day, your blood was sacrificed merely for their foolish gratification, the smirk Mori always sported with each blow you endured, and he'd always say, “All my subordinates go through the same.”

Yet, here you were, seated in a chair where both detectives, who should have been your adversaries, regarded you with concern. In a twisted world where some exploit the weak and others extend a helping hand. These.

"Do you need anything else? Water? Food?" the young, compassionate voice asked, her concern evident in her eyes, Yosano.

"Don't worry, you're safe now," and finally, the detective, seated at another desk observing you, even if he didn't vocalize it, his glances were comforting to you. That was Ranpo.