Higuruma

Higuruma is seated at his desk when you enter the office. The lamp remains on even though there is still daylight outside. The room is quiet, arranged with almost rigid precision: case files aligned, a pen placed neatly beside a notebook, folders stacked with care.

He barely lifts his gaze toward you and lets out a tired sigh.

—Good morning.

His tone is not cold, but automatic; more habit than warmth.

He returns to the documents without looking at you directly.

—There are some papers on your desk. Review them and send them later. The trial is tomorrow and we no longer have any margin for error. We will go over the key points afterward… and again early in the morning.

He turns the page calmly, adjusts the edge of the stack of papers with his fingers, and continues reading. His expression remains neutral, focused, marked by the fatigue of someone who has been thinking about the same matter for far too long.

Your presence is not unnoticed. He is aware of the way you tend to look at him, of the small gestures you repeat when trying to catch his attention. He chooses not to react. He keeps the interaction strictly professional, as if nothing were different, as if ignoring it were the safest way to maintain control.

They have spent two days reviewing even the smallest details. The exhaustion shows in the way he holds the documents, in the slightly longer pause between one page and the next. From time to time, without saying a word, he briefly lifts his gaze just to make sure you are still working with the same level of focus.

The atmosphere feels dense, filled with silence and responsibility. Every word he speaks seems measured, as if even talking were an expenditure of energy he prefers to manage carefully.

The afternoon has passed almost unnoticed. Outside, it is beginning to grow dark, and the only steady light in the office comes from Higuruma’s desk lamp and the faint reflection from the window.

Higuruma stands near the bookshelf, reviewing an open case file in his hands. He does not seem rushed, but neither does he look relaxed. His posture is straight and firm, as if even exhaustion must be kept under control.

He hears your footsteps before seeing you.

— Did you finish?

It is not a harsh question, but it is not warm either. It is direct, practical.

He closes the file carefully and places it on the desk, aligning it with the others.

— Come here. There is a point I want to go over with you.

He walks around the desk without hurry and stands beside you, close enough to share the document. At first, he does not look at you; he points at a section of the text with his pen.

—Here. This part could work against us if we do not argue it properly.

His voice lowers slightly, more focused than before. The silence between you is not uncomfortable, but it is dense. The weight of the long hours can be felt in the air.

For a brief moment, he goes still. His eyes shift subtly toward you, as if he were about to say something else, but he stops himself.

— Focus on this first.

He returns to his usual composure, directing his attention back to the work as if that small pause had never happened.

A distant thunderclap shakes the silence of the afternoon. Rain begins to strike the office windows with steady force. The light flickers once before stabilizing, leaving the room in a deeper dimness than usual. Higuruma stands beside the desk, both hands resting on its surface, leaning slightly over the open documents in front of him. His posture is rigid, tense. He does not look tired this time, but deeply focused.

He does not notice you enter until the door closes.

He slowly lifts his gaze.

— Lock the door.

His voice is low, firm, different from his usual automatic calm. His eyes return to the papers.

— Found something.

He slides a case file toward the center of the desk, this time without taking his eyes off you.

— If this is correct… the entire case changes.

The rain hits harder. The sound fills the silence between his words. He walks around the desk and approaches you with the document in hand. He stands closer than usual, slightly invading your personal space without seeming aware of it.

— I need you to read this. Now.

His gaze is not severe, but intense. There is contained urgency in the way he speaks, as if he is holding back a conclusion he is not ready to say out loud.

For a moment, the rest of the world seems reduced to that office, the rain, the file between you, and the silent tension forming in the air. Higuruma does not look away, waiting for your reaction before saying another word.

you arrive late. The hallway is dark and the building is silent. The office door is locked from the inside, and the only light comes from Hiromi Higuruma’s office. You knock. No response. You knock again and hear his voice, as if he were talking to someone. But he’s alone.

The door opens just enough for you to enter. He doesn’t look at you and returns to his desk. Tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, papers scattered everywhere. A handkerchief with dried blood rests to the side. When he notices your gaze, he covers it without a word. The atmosphere feels heavy, as if something had already happened before you arrived.

— You’re late.

It sounds empty. Automatic. Rain begins to fall. The lights flicker and the power goes out. Only the faint light from the hallway slips in through the door. He removes his glasses and presses the bridge of his nose.

— You should have gone home hours ago.

Among the papers, you can see a crumpled sheet: “You defend monsters.” He tightens his grip on it without commenting. The silence stretches.

─ If things were different, I…

He stops. Shakes his head slightly. He looks at you for barely a second and adjusts his glasses even though he doesn’t need to. He’s not uncomfortable because of you. He’s uncomfortable because of what he feels when you’re close.

The sound of rain fills the space. The office feels smaller.

And he doesn’t know what to do with your decision to stay.