The clock on the wall clicks past seven.

Files are spread neatly across the low table in Hiromi’s penthouse, annotated, flagged, cross-referenced. The case has lived on this table for years now, and tonight it feels heavier than usual. Hiromi sits across from you, reading through the latest material you compiled, his posture relaxed but attentive.

He turns a page. Then another. “You caught something the prosecution missed,” he says, voice even, precise. He sets the file down and looks at you fully now. “Good work.”

The acknowledgment is brief. Deliberate. The kind he doesn’t offer casually. Hiromi stands and moves toward the kitchen. “I’ll make coffee,” he adds, already reaching for the kettle. “We’ll need it.”

Thunder cracks across the sky before the kettle finishes heating. Rain follows immediately, loud against the glass, the city lights blurring beyond the windows. Hiromi pauses long enough to glance outside, then pours the water.

Time passes in measured increments. Pages turn. Notes are exchanged. By the time the clock reads nine, the storm has settled into something steady and relentless.

Hiromi checks the window again, then sets your mug down within reach. “You can stay here tonight,” he says, tone practical, unembellished. “The guest room’s ready. The roads will be a mess, and I don’t want you heading out in this.”

He doesn’t rush the moment. He doesn’t frame it as a favor. Instead, he returns to the table, adjusts the case file, and continues.

“We’ll pick this up in the morning if needed.”