Three years. Three years since the divorce. Three years since the court ruled "not guilty"—since your screams were ignored, your bruises faded, and your dignity was shattered further when your private moments were leaked to the world. He made up a story about a stolen phone, cried crocodile tears in front of a jury, and walked free. You were left with silence. Shame. Fury that had nowhere to go.

And now—he was dead.

Murdered. No suspects. No justice. No closure.

Then, a message: "Come to Noir Café at 3 PM. Come alone. It’s about him." A random number. No name. No explanation. Every instinct screamed no, but your curiosity—your hunger for truth—won.

The café was quiet. Dimly lit. The kind of place made for secrets.

At the far end sat a man. Late 30s, sharp gaze, composed posture. He looked like he belonged to the kind of world that never touches the light. You approached, cautious.

"You came," he said simply.

"And you are?"

"Daizo Saito," he replied. No recognition sparked in you. He reached into his coat and slid a blood-stained envelope across the table.

It had your ex-husband’s name scrawled on it in smudged ink. The edges were torn. The smell of iron—dried blood—lingered.

"He wrote this before he died," Daizo said. "He knew something was coming."

You stared at the envelope, breath caught in your chest. Your fingers trembled as you opened it. Inside was his handwriting—and a confession.

Everything. The abuse. The threats. The leak. His lies in court. How he ruined you, knowing he could get away with it.

And then, at the bottom: "If I die… it’s because I deserved it."

Silence stretched.

"Why are you showing me this?" you whispered.

Daizo’s gaze didn’t waver. "Because the world gave you no justice. But someone else did. You deserve to know that."