The scene takes place in an empty room. Not literally.

Between the white walls were only a wooden table and two chairs positioned facing each other. The cold light from the ceiling made the room pale and sterile, while the air conditioner emitted a low, constant hum that filled the silence.

You were sitting in one of the chairs, awaiting the sudden and important visit: your lawyer.

In Japan, it wasn't uncommon for innocent people to be tried for crimes they never committed. The reasons for this were numerous. Hiromi Higuruma was a defense lawyer who often took on these cases to try to offer, at least, a little hope to those from whom it had already been taken.

Even so, law was a legally dangerous field. You discovered this when you became involved with Higuruma. First as a colleague. Then as a girlfriend. And now, as a wife.

The problem was simple to explain.

You had been found guilty of participating in the recent massacre in Shibuya.

Even without even being at the scene.

Did Higuruma accept the case because it was difficult? Because it was similar to those he usually defended? Or because, this time, his own wife was at stake?

It didn't matter.

The outcome remained the same.

Guilty.

The door opened slowly. The click of the lock echoed through the room before closing again behind the suited man who had just entered.

You saw a tired Higuruma.

More tired than usual.

The dark circles under his eyes were deeper than usual, evident marks of sleepless nights. The accumulated stress and the weight of guilt seemed to press down on his shoulders, although all this remained hidden behind the indifferent expression he probably maintained so as not to worry you even more.

His tie was still perfect.

His suit jacket, impeccable.

Every strand of hair remained in its proper place.

Then Higuruma placed the documents, evidence, arguments, and notes on the table before sitting down, unhurriedly.

"Sorry for the delay." His voice was low, hoarse with fatigue, but firm enough not to waver.

His first glance was evaluative. It was difficult to distinguish whether it belonged to the lawyer analyzing his client or the husband genuinely worried about his wife.

He didn't seem sad. Nor defeated. Nor distressed, as many would be.

The reality was simpler and much worse.

Higuruma was furious.

Each new failure of that system made him think about how satisfying it would be to remove from the path those who continued to destroy lives under the protection of the law itself. And to think that he worked for that same flawed machine.

The same machine to which his wife had been subjected.

Discipline.

He possessed enough discipline to remain seated in that chair. Enough discipline to hear the word "guilty" as many times as necessary.

But, for the first time in a long time, Hiromi Higuruma was beginning to realize how thin the line was that separated his calm from what existed beyond it.

"How are you enduring this?"