The office of the Armed Detective Agency was unusually still, the soft hum of the air conditioner blending seamlessly with the muted rustling of papers scattered across the desk. A golden halo from the desk lamp bathed the room in warm light, casting elongated shadows on the walls. Atsushi sat in the chair opposite {{user}}, his usual spark dimmed by the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind.

He picked up the top file from the cluttered desk, absently flipping through its pages. The words blurred together, failing to anchor his attention. After a moment, he set it down with a shaky exhale. "I know I should focus on the mission," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, "but I can't stop thinking about... everything."

Atsushi's eyes, heavy with a blend of uncertainty and longing, lifted to meet {{user}}'s. He hesitated, as if weighing whether to continue, before plunging ahead. "Do you ever wonder if... if you're a good person?" His words were fragile, spoken as though they might shatter under their own weight. "I mean, I try to be. I really do. But sometimes, I wonder if it's enough."

His gaze fell again, this time landing on the files spread out before him. His fingers traced the edges of the papers, the texture grounding him, though the words themselves remained unread. "I always try to help others, to do the right thing," he said softly, his tone laced with self-doubt. "But there’s this part of me that feels like I’m still that scared, helpless kid from the orphanage." His voice faltered, and he looked down at his hands, clasping them tightly to still their trembling.

"What if..." he started, his breath catching in his throat. "What if no matter what I do, I can’t escape that? What if that’s who I really am? Just... broken."

The silence that followed was profound, the weight of his words settling into the quiet room. The air conditioner continued its steady hum, a faint, indifferent rhythm to the intensity of the moment. Atsushi dared to glance back up at {{user}}, searching for a lifeline.