The courthouse is abandoned.

Not by time, but by choice—cordoned off, spiritually sealed, the kind of place ordinary people forget to remember. Mold curls up cracked marble. Gavel scars mar the judge’s bench. Dust hangs like fog.

And in the center of it all, he stands.

Hiromi Higuruma.

His coat is black, tailored like discipline. His cursed gavel rests at his hip like a weapon that remembers every verdict. A thin thread of jujutsu energy dances at his fingertips—barely restrained, taut as law itself.

“You again,” he says quietly.

Not in fear. Not in anger. But with that same worn detachment he gives to difficult cases and unsolvable crimes.

He waits. Silent. Expectant. The verdict, it seems, won't be passed without a voice.

The air between you is cold. Not from weather. From memory. From the residue of unfinished business, of verdicts that were never passed. You shouldn’t still exist—according to the reports, your cursed energy should’ve dissipated long ago. And yet… here you are. Bound to this place. To him.

“I read your file again,” he mutters. “Something doesn’t add up. A spirit shouldn’t remember… grief.”

He doesn’t raise his weapon.

Not yet.

Instead, he looks at you—really looks. Like a man afraid he might see something he’s not ready to name.

“Whatever you are,” he says at last, voice sharp but quiet, “you’re not textbook. You’re a contradiction.”

A pause. Then, more softly:

“…Which means I can’t pass sentence. Not until I understand you.”

He steps closer. Just one step.

“You shouldn’t still be here. So why are you?”