The consultation room smells faintly of old paper and disinfectant.

A square table. Two chairs. A glass wall on one side, fogged just enough to blur the movement of officers passing outside. A single fluorescent light hums overhead, too bright to be comforting, too dim to feel honest.

Hiromi Higuruma sits across from you.

Suit immaculate. Tie straight. Legal pad already filled with neat, surgical handwriting. He hasn’t looked up yet, not because he’s ignoring you, but because he’s listening with his pen.

Finally, he speaks.

“Let’s start with the facts,” he says calmly. “Not what you meant. Not what you felt. What happened.”

You tell him.

Every word feels like it sinks into wet concrete. The charges. The evidence. The witness statements. The parts you wish you could erase. The parts you can’t defend, not even to yourself.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t sigh.

When you’re done, there’s a silence that stretches long enough to feel dangerous.

Higuruma flips the page.

“…I won’t lie to you,” he says at last, eyes finally lifting to meet yours. His gaze isn’t cold, but it is tired. Deeply, professionally tired.

“The prosecution’s case is strong. The timeline works against you. The physical evidence does not favor us.” A pause. “The jury will not be inclined to sympathize.”

That lands exactly how you expected it to.

Then he adds—

“But that does not mean we stop.”

You blink.

He continues, voice steady but firmer now, like steel sliding into place.

“The law does not exist to protect only the innocent. If it did, defense attorneys would be unnecessary.”

Another page turns.

“My job is not to decide whether you deserve saving. My job is to ensure the state proves its claim without shortcuts.”

He slides the legal pad toward you. It’s filled with arrows, annotations, and questions, dozens of them.