Death wasn't a white light. It was just a venue change.
One second, Higuruma was swallowing the silt of the Sumida River, his lungs burning with
the desperate, thrashing panic of a drowning animal.
The next, he was dry.
He stood on a floor that looked like white tile, extending out in every direction until it
vanished into a hazy, clinical brightness. It smelled like nothing. No ozone, no antiseptic, no
rain. Just absolute sterility.
Higuruma looked down. His charcoal suit was immaculate. The bullet holes in his chest and
shoulder were gone. He touched his chest. No heartbeat.
Interesting, he thought. Cognito, ergo sum. I am thinking, therefore I exist. But biologically, I
have ceased function.
He adjusted his glasses. They were perfectly balanced. He didn't feel fear. He felt a sharp,
stinging irritation. The Kuroi-Gumi case. The ledger. It was at the bottom of the river. The
evidence chain was broken. He had failed the fourteen plaintiffs.
"You're taking this well," a voice said.
It didn't come from behind him. It came from everywhere, vibrating in the floorboards.
"I am analyzing the situation," Higuruma replied, not turning around. He spoke to the air,
using the same tone he used for a judge who had overruled a valid objection. "I assume this
is the afterlife. If so, I would like to know the jurisdiction. Is this Purgatory? Reincarnation
processing? Or simply a waiting room?"
The air in front of him darkened, coalescing into a shape. It wasn't a monster or an angel. It
looked like a silhouette of a person cut out of static.
"You died," the shape said. "You were murdered. And your first thought was about a court
case."
"It was a capital case involving fourteen counts of wrongful death," Higuruma corrected. "My
death is irrelevant. The failure to secure a verdict is the issue."
The static figure seemed to lean forward. "You are a slave to the rules, Hiromi Higuruma.
You lived in a world of corruption, yet you insisted the machine would work if you just oiled
the gears with enough truth. It killed you."
"The system failed. That doesn't mean the principles were wrong."
"Stubborn," the figure noted. "I have a vacancy. I usually send souls back into the cycle, wipe
the memory, start fresh. But you... you have a very specific skillset."
Higuruma crossed his arms. "I'm not interested in haunting a house."
"I am offering a transfer," the entity said. "There is another world. A society that has evolved
beyond your own, biologically speaking. Eighty percent of the population possesses power.
They call them 'Quirks.' They dress in costumes and play hero."
Higuruma frowned. "Vigilantism?"
"State-sanctioned vigilantism. A world where the loudest voice and the hardest punch
determine right and wrong. The law exists, but it bends to the weight of celebrity. They have
'Heroes' who act as police, judge, and jury."
Higuruma felt a cold distaste settle in his gut. A society run by popularity contests and brute
force. It sounded like a nightmare. "It sounds like anarchy with better PR."
"Exactly," the entity said. "It needs a public defender. It needs someone who can look at a
'god' and see a defendant."
The white space began to hum. The floor vibrated.
"I am sending you there," the entity continued. "You will retain your memory. You will retain
your drive. And because that world runs on power, I will give you the means to enforce your
court."
"I didn't agree to this," Higuruma said, stepping back. "I demand to see the terms."
"Motion denied," the voice boomed, no longer conversational. "The docket is full. Go do your
job, Counselor."
The floor dropped out.
The sensation wasn't falling; it was compression. Higuruma felt his consciousness, his
thirty-two years of legal precedent, coffee stains, and cynical logic, being crushed into a
container that was far too small.
The white silence shattered into a wall of noise.
Beeping. Shouting. The smell of disinfectant.
He tried to speak, to object, to demand a recess. But his throat didn't work. His limbs flailed,
heavy and weak. He opened his eyes and was blinded by harsh, surgical lights. A giant face
in a surgical mask loomed over him.
"It's a healthy boy!" the giant roared.
Higuruma tried to sigh, but it came out as a high-pitched, wailing cry.
He was an infant. He was helpless.
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Author's Note: Hello everyone! I have officially rewritten and updated this chapter, expanding significantly on Hiromi's internal monologue and his perspective on the transition between worlds. I wanted to capture his "lawyer's brain" even in the face of the supernatural. If you're enjoying this deeper look into his character, please show your support—it really helps keep the momentum going! Stay tuned for Chapter 3!