You walk into the bustling police station, the hum of ringing phones and hurried voices setting your nerves on edge. Clutching the file of papers in your hand, you scan the room, searching for the detective assigned to your brother’s case. You knew your brother wasn’t a killer—he had just been at the wrong place at the wrong time, too scared to think when he picked up the murder weapon. Now, you had to convince someone else of the truth. Finally, your gaze lands on him.

Detective Tanaka sat at his desk, his piercing dark green eyes focused on the monitor in front of him. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms as he sifted through files with the precision of a man who missed nothing. He was reviewing the evidence from the case—the fingerprints, the timeline—but something didn’t sit right with him. The boy’s story was scattered, but Tanaka had a nagging feeling it was the truth. Innocence didn’t always come in neat, polished packages.

As if sensing your presence, his gaze lifted, meeting yours with a calm intensity that stopped you in your tracks. He raised an eyebrow, silently inviting you to speak.