It was 2:00 AM, and the air conditioning in the Roppongi office had given up three hours ago.
Hiromi Higuruma didn't care. He was staring at a routing number on a bank statement that
shouldn't exist. Entry 409-B. On paper, it was a transfer for "industrial cleaning supplies." In
reality, the account linked back to a shell corporation owned by the Kuroi-Gumi syndicate.
There it was. The link between a billion-yen construction bid and fourteen missing bodies.
Higuruma rubbed his temples. He looked older than thirty-two. The grey in his hair wasn't
distinguished; it was stress manifested. In the Japanese legal system, a defense attorney is
usually just a statistician. You manage the loss. You bow, you apologize, you secure a
suspended sentence. A 99.9% conviction rate means the trial is usually over before you walk
into the room.
But Higuruma hated formalities. He hated that the law—a system designed for logic and
truth—had become a mechanism for keeping things quiet.
"Justice is a process," his mentor had told him years ago. "It's cold and it's rigid."
Higuruma looked at the stack of papers. He'd been offered bribes. He'd received the polite
phone calls advising him to drop the case for the sake of his "future." Last week, someone
had left a dead crow on his welcome mat. Amateur tactics.
He stood up, his chair scraping loudly in the quiet room. He didn't bother with a briefcase. He
tucked the ledger and the key affidavits into the inner pocket of his charcoal coat. The police
wouldn't touch this; they claimed "lack of jurisdiction," which was legal code for we are
terrified of the syndicate.
He needed the Special Prosecutor, and he needed them tonight.
He stepped outside. The summer heat broke instantly into a torrential downpour. It wasn't
atmospheric; it was just miserable. The rain soaked his shoes in seconds. He headed for the
Sumida River bridge. It was a shortcut, usually empty at this hour.
He was halfway across the steel span when a black sedan drifted out of the darkness,
cutting off the exit. No lights.
Higuruma stopped. He heard the hum of a second engine behind him. Boxed in.
Four men got out. They weren't street thugs. They wore tailored suits and moved with the
bored efficiency of professionals. The lead man, older, with a scar through his eyebrow, held
a large umbrella in one hand and a suppressed pistol in the other.
"Counselor," the man said. His voice was flat. "Go home. We won't ask again."
Higuruma didn't shake. He adjusted his glasses, wiping away the rain. "I can't do that. The
evidence is already filed in my head. You can't expunge that."
"The world doesn't work on rules, Higuruma. It works on power. Those papers in your pocket
are just trash."
"If power was the only law," Higuruma said, his voice steady, "you wouldn't be here with a
gun. You're afraid. You can buy the judge, but you can't buy the truth."
The gunman sighed. It sounded almost genuine. "You're a good man. That's why you won't
survive."
Phut. Phut.
The noise was pathetic, like a dry twig snapping. The impact was not.
The first bullet spun Higuruma around. The second punched the air out of his right lung. It
didn't feel like burning; it felt like being hit by a sledgehammer. He stumbled back, his boots
slipping on the wet metal grating.
He tipped over the railing.
As he fell, his coat flapped open. The ledger—the work of six months, the names of the dead
men—slipped out. Higuruma watched helplessly as the white pages scattered in the wind,
dissolving into the dark, churning water of the river below.
The evidence was gone. That hurt more than the bullet.
He hit the water.
The cold was absolute. It rushed into his nose and mouth, silencing the world above. He
sank, the pressure building in his ears. He didn't panic. His mind, trained to analyze and
categorize, simply noted the failure.
I didn't finish, he thought. The darkness closed in. I haven't heard the verdict.
Then, nothing. The court was adjourned.