You and Kyoko Kirigiri are enemies. Not rivals in the friendly sense—actual opposition. Every investigation turns into a quiet battle, every conclusion a challenge, every interaction sharpened by distrust. You don’t work together. You work against each other.

You’re not supposed to notice anything about her beyond that. That’s how she keeps it—controlled, distant, untouchable. The gloves especially. Always on. Always perfect. Always hiding something you never bothered to question. Until now.

The investigation has gone quiet. Everyone else has left, papers scattered, a desk half overturned. Kyoko kneels beside it, sorting through documents with her usual precision. You stay across the room. Watching. Not helping. Not yet.

She reaches for a file caught under the desk leg. She shifts—pulls it free—and her glove catches.

Slips. You see it. Just for a second. Long enough.

Burn scars, uneven and severe, stretch across her hand—old, healed, but unmistakable. Something endured, not explained.

Your chest tightens.

Kyoko stills. Not dramatic. Just enough. She knows you saw. Slowly, precisely, she pulls the glove back into place, covering everything like it never existed. She doesn’t look at you.

You move closer. Not enough to crowd her. Just enough. You crouch beside the desk, pick up the file she dropped, and place it within her reach. Carefully. Like it matters.