Chapter Text
You let out a mirthless laugh, eyes fixed on the spiderweb crack splitting your phone screen in two.
The pavement stretches endlessly ahead twenty six shades of dull blue, monotonous grey, and lifeless beige blurring together.
Twenty six voices bleat and bark around you in a relentless cacophony.
Twenty six years old.
Scrabbling through an acrimonious divorce.
Twenty six fucking calls from your soon-to-be ex husband this week alone.
Then you see it.
The sign for Higuruma Law Office.
It glows an impossible green, sunlight catching the window at just the right angle.
It looks less like an office and more like a beacon. An almost cruel parody of hope at the end of a very long, very bitter tunnel.
The blur of buildings deepens, colours running together into something sickening and abstract. Construction drills, car horns, and raised voices crescendo in your ears.
The tunnel narrows. The noise sharpen and the door zooms into focus in front of you.
You don’t hesitate. Your nails click sharply against the metal handle, the sound slicing through the buzzing haze wrapped around your skull.
You yank the door open.
Silence.
Absolute and immediate, as if the street has been vacuum-sealed away.
You blink against the brightness. The reception area is mundane, almost cozy. Walls the colour of margarine. A wooden desk to the right.
From behind it comes a steady rhythm
Click clack Click clack clack… click.
You follow the sound to its composer.
The receptionist looks up, warm faced and cherubic. Thick brown hair is pinned half up from her heart shaped face. Her friendly eyes crinkle as she smiles.
“Afternoon. Do you have an appointment?”
You complete your march toward her. “Yes. I’m Y/N. I’m here for a consultation.”
“Yes, he’ll just be a moment. Take a seat outside his office. The lift is just to the left, press twenty six.”
Of course.
You turn away, feeling the absurd repetition settle like a weight in your gut.
Your heels clack across the polished floor, louder than the keyboard behind you. The lift is empty. No hum of distraction. Just you and the anticipation pressing tight against your ribs.
You jab the twenty sixth button with unnecessary force and cross your arms. Your finger begins tapping against your bicep. You suddenly miss the clamour of the street.
A discordant ding announces your arrival.
You step out, seized by a fleeting surge of purpose, this is the beginning of the end.
The awful chapter will close here.
But by the time you reach the lumpy green seat outside a wooden door, the mental exhaustion wins. You collapse into it unceremoniously, setting your bag beside you on a particularly large lump in the seats padding.
That’s when it tips.
Your bag careens sideways, skidding across the floor directly in front of the door. It flips open on impact, disgorging its contents in a deafening humiliating trail: papers, lipstick, receipts…
You stare at the name emblazoned plaque on the door opposite your traitorous disembowelled bag.
HIROMI HIGURUMA
“Shit.” You hiss
You drop to your knees.
Priority retrieval: Your favourite lipstick which was a gift from Nobara. The ripped tights from three weeks ago when you caught them on a subway turnstile. The half eaten muffin wrapped in a napkin, And because the universe despises you, a tampon that rolls with finality toward the threshold of the doorway.
You scramble, stuffing everything back into the bag with desperate efficiency.
A deafening creak.
You freeze.
The door swings inward.
You’ve chased your belongings far enough that you are now on all fours, directly in facing the open door.
You inhale sharply and look up.
Immaculate black shoes.
Tailored crisp black slacks.
The sharp, imposing silhouette of a black tailored blazer, a crisp white shirt just visible beneath, neatly anchored by an immaculate black tie
A strong jaw. Roman nose. Deep-set, inky sanpaku eyes.
The sharp, pinpricks of his pupils are looking down at you pinning you to the spot.
Heat prickles at your scalp and you feel the furious blush of mortification sweep like a tidal wave down to your collarbone.
Shit.
One dark brow lifts, languid, almost bored. The only indication that finding a woman kneeling before his office isn’t a daily occurrence.
“I’ve already reviewed and accepted your case briefing,” he enunciates smoothly. “You do not need to beg.”
You gape up at him as he continues.
“I trust,” he says evenly, “that whatever catastrophic event just occurred outside my door has a reasonable explanation and that you intend to provide it.”
Your brain short-circuits.
“My chair is lumpy,” you blurt.
Silence.
The only movement in his expression is a slow blink.
He tilts his head a fraction as to better observe you, expression still infuriatingly neutral.
“So you’d rather sit on my floor?”
the tiniest crease forms between his brows, like he’s peering down at a speck of lint on his otherwise pristine floor.
“No…I was tidying up. The chair made me drop my bag.”
He glances from you to the seat, which sits there looking offensively innocent.
“This inanimate object,” he says slowly “made you drop your bag.”
You huff, irritation briefly overpowering embarrassment. “I just dropped my things. They flew everywhere.”
You gesture helplessly.
“ If you’re finished debasing yourself for legal counsel—”
His voice is cool, measured, cutting through the tension. He tilts his head back slightly, indicating with a faint gesture that the performance has run its course.
You push yourself upright, smoothing your skirt and tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
Do people really beg him to take their cases?
He couldn’t have looked less intrigued by the sad little woman sprawled on his floor.
He studies you for a long moment with his analytical gaze. Then he steps aside, opening the door wider with a brisk gesture.
You grab onto this lifeline and obey immediately, desperate to end the spectacle.
His office is minimalist and severe. He moves to stand behind his desk with predatory ease and gestures for you to sit. You place your bag carefully this time but it still clatters against the chair leg. You tighten the clasp with spite fueled strength. It remains closed.
Miraculously.
“It’s so quiet in here,” you mutter, because apparently your mouth has declared independence from your brain.
“Was,” he corrects dryly dropping into his seat.
You wring your hands.
He sits opposite you, elbows resting on the desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His gaze is sharp, assessing but tired.
It really is unbearably quiet.
“So,” he says at last.
“Divorce case?”