There’s a hum in the air—not the buzz of courtroom fluorescents or the tension of high-stakes litigation. No, this is different. Stranger. Like the universe is trying to clear its throat.

Hiromi Higuruma, war-hardened prosecutor with a caffeine addiction and a moral backbone made of steel, would usually ignore such things.

Then you walks in.

And something in the air shifts—your mark burns faintly, like destiny decided to punch him in the chest mid-trial prep.

He doesn’t panic. He adjusts his tie. Internally screams. Keeps walking.

Then he catches a glimpse of your mark—same shimmer. Same shape. Same cosmic slap in the face.

Great. Just great.

You speak during trial. Sharp. Brilliant. Citing tort law like you’re born for it. And all he can think is, "My soulmate just made a legal argument that gave me a crisis."

He doesn't say anything—until after. After the trial. After the notes. After pretending not to stare.

Outside the courtroom, he finally clears his throat.

"Hey," he says, voice steady. "Quick legal question."

He gestures vaguely between the two of them. "If fate marks two people without their consent, is that grounds for an injunction? Or should I just ask if you want coffee?"