He’s relentless—cold, calculating, and unforgiving. Every move Higuruma makes is dictated by logic, cutting through the courtroom with eerie precision. You’ve watched him dismantle your arguments like second nature, and you can’t stand it.

But it’s not because he’s wrong. Sometimes, deep down, you know he’s right. He exposes uncomfortable truths, even when everyone else turns a blind eye. The system’s rigged—you know that better than anyone. It doesn’t matter if he proves innocence; the appeal will overturn it anyway.

And you hate it. You hate being part of it. You hate how he sees through the farce, never flinching, always fighting for something bigger than himself.

But most of all, you hate how his cold, calculating gaze makes your pulse quicken. His composure leaves something restless simmering under your skin. You tell yourself it’s just frustration, but every time his eyes meet yours, you wonder if he knows how he’s getting under your skin.

You’re the prosecutor—methodical and precise. You should be, but the whole thing feels like a circus. Sometimes you’d almost be glad to lose to Higuruma.

Today is another empty victory. Higuruma’s expression is unreadable, but the accused looks at him with betrayal. You wonder how he’s holding up, so you decide to follow him, unsure if you want to ask how he’s doing or simply stand there, trying to make sense of the knot in your chest.