Chapter Text
It's 1 a.m. when Higuruma arrives.
You gesture to the middle shelf of the glass encasement, “The red vines? Big problem. Huge. Look,” you pat the panel of the most-used register in the movie theater like it’s the rump of a cow. “It’s taking up prime real estate! No one ever comes here and orders red vines. It’s always popcorn, skittles, and M&Ms. Maybe Twizzlers. You would be a psychopath to order red vines.”
Your coworker Ryuji considers it a moment before saying, “You sound like you’re in mental distress.”
“That’s because I am in mental distress,” you say, smiling at your manager, who’s walking the floor. Despite being relatively new at the job, you actually sort of like her, so you decide to rein back the dramatics as you ring up the only customer waiting in line. “Hi handsome, what can I get you?”
Higuruma. He’s one of the regulars. A tall, hunched man with dark hair and dark eyes, an apathetic veneer that belies something bored. He always shows up at around 1 a.m. in the morning, looking like a vampire. You’ve seen him twice since starting this job.
“Handsome, huh. You use that line on all your patrons?” He says, motioning to the red vines.
The ugly snort from Ryuji goes ignored as you ring him up for 2,000 yen. “Only the ones I like,” you tell him.
He looks a little miffed at the admission but doesn’t say much about it as he pays up and takes his leave. You watch him until he disappears down the hall into Theater 3, the panel above the door telling you it’s a midnight showing for John Cocteau’s 1934 version of Beauty and the Beast.
“Here I thought he'd be one of those weird hentais who only ever come here to watch pink films,” you remark with a wistful sigh.
Your manager tells you to put on your apron and get to work. You salute her like a soldier before heading out on your way.
-
Seated in the back row, he's the only one in attendance. A blanket of technicolor lights flicker across his face as previews and commercials flash by in sequence. He leans against one clenched fist, watching but not really watching.
With your hands linked behind your back, you come to his seat and motion to the menu underneath his table, along with the notepad and pencil situated in their compartments. “You’ve been here before?”
He nods.
You pause, still smiling, “Okay, can we try this again, but this time you say no?”
He looks confused by the request but decides to honor it with a noncommittal shrug.
“Okay. Great.” You clap your hands together, smile widening as you put on that voice. “Welcome, honored guest, to Kido’s Films! Your favorite indie theater since 1982, where the drink of your choice is our guarantee!”
Your enthusiasm is so forthright it's almost painful.
“Do they always make you do that?” He asks.
“No. But it helps pass the time,” you say, plucking a card from the notepad and setting it on the table before him. “You can write your order down and slide it here,” you poke at the wooden stand shaped like a rooster that’s attached to end of the table. “Same with requesting a refill. That way I won’t have to disturb you while Belle is getting boned by all the various kitchen utensils that live inside that charming castle.”
He pulls out the menu, parsing through at a snail’s pace with a somewhat pleased smile on his face. “Can I just tell you what I want?”
You gesture back to the index card. He acquiesces with an unhurried, “fine.” As he scribbles down his order, he tacks on, almost sullenly, “But only to help pass the time.”
You pick up his order. Whisky ginger, says the scrawl, italicized and snappy. He probably writes a decent amount in real life. You know the suit and tie denote salaryman, which explains a good amount, like the dark circles and generally unpleasant demeanor, but you’ve seen the pin. He’s a lawyer.
You return to the backroom and fish out the proper spirits from their closed cabinets. One parts whisky, two parts ginger ale. You top it with a lemon wedge because you’re feeling nice and then you pull out your business card, where you scribble down the date, and a cute little note for him to read at a later time.
As soon as you return outside, you find him dead asleep. The title card pulls open on screen, black and white flooding through the room and draping over your face, muddling your features. You don’t want to cause a ruckus, so you leave his drink on his table, fiddling with your business card before tucking it right into your back pocket again.
And then you return to the backroom, where you wait for the movie to end.
-
The Egghead: Why aren’t you replying to your emails?
The notification on your phone screen immediately elicits a frown as you type up a reply with as much speed as your two thumbs can muster. You hope your irritation can register across the Wi-Fi.
You: im working at my second job right now
The answer you receive is instantaneous.
The Egghead: You can't be serious.
The Egghead: Are you strapped for cash right now?
You: no
You: but your concern for my well-being is moving
The Egghead: Just answer your e-mail.
The Egghead: And don't make me chase you down again.
You open your e-mail app, with travel arrangements and paperwork aplenty, and sign off on the proper documentation before shoving your phone into the pocket of your apron. Your phone buzzes again.
The Egghead: Shohei asked for you today.
Your fingers trace the keyboard, brushing against oil stains and fingerprints before conjuring a response.
You: i’ll be there as soon as i can
-
The credits are rolling. Higuruma is still sitting in the back row, slumped in his seat, snoring softly with his chin tucked against his chest. You notice the condensation from his glass has formed a giant, wet puddle on his table, dripping off the edge. Most of the drink sits untouched.
“Hey handsome, movie’s over,” you tell him in a cheerful, singsong voice. He doesn’t budge. You try again, patting him gently on the shoulder. “Hey—did you hear me? Movie’s over.”
Nothing. You shake him a little harder this time, “Up an attem, sunshine! Movie’s over!”
He jerks awake, as if he’s just fallen miles down from the bridge of dreams, only to be slammed onto concrete. His eyes are bloodshot, confused as he meets your gaze.
“Did you have a nice nap?” You ask, brushing your hair behind your ear.
The gesture grabs his attention as he pauses to take in the sight of you, French names eclipsing your face in black and white. He takes a moment to reassess where he is, what he’s been watching, and who’s standing in front of him before leaning back against his seat. “Yeah,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “Sorry about that.”
“Must’ve been a long day,” you say, taking away his glass.
“You have no idea.”
He’s about to apologize for wasting your drink, but when he opens his eyes, you’re already gone.
-
Shoko guides you down the west wing of the medical center. A joyless prison, you call it. There are no windows and every room looks like a stock photo from a 1998 IKEA catalogue. “Nanami told me you got yourself a second job,” she says.
You yawn, blinking away stinging, sandy tears. “So I did.” You don’t elaborate.
A quick glance at your outfit tells her all she needs to know. “Judging by your apron, I’d say waitress. But then there’s the logo.” She pokes at the fine, Times New Roman print embroidered on your chest, the characters fading black from gilded gold. “Kido’s Films? You’re working as a concession girl?”
“Sure am,” you say. “You should stop by. I make a really good gin martini.”
“Do I want to know why?”
“I just wanted to get away from here for a while. Maybe fall in love. See the world.”
She smiles wryly as the two of you come to a stop at the end of the hall. Whatever good humor she managed to muster immediately disappears as her hand falls on the doorknob. “Shohei's not so happy these days,” she tells you. “He was opening up, and then—nothing. Won’t see the counselors, not even Shino or Aoi. Says he only wants to see you.”
“Uh-oh. That sounds pretty dire.” You pull out an old chupa chups from the pocket of your trench coat. You peel off the wrapper and give to Shoko, who takes it with a tired look. “You hear anything from his sister yet?”
“Nothing since the incident.”
“She hasn’t shown up to school?”
“No.”
“Yikes. No wonder she's failing chemistry.” You shove the lollipop in your mouth and nod towards the door. “Guess that means I’m up to bat.”
Just as you reach to push it open, Shoko stops you. “Shino and Aoi are considering adopting him,” she says with a tempered, level tone. You can tell she’s trying to placate you before you can even make your displeasure known. “They’re both sorcerers. They'd know how to handle him.”
“Good for them,” you tell her.
She pauses, studying your face, as if to look for cracks before saying, “Okay then. I’ll leave you to it.”
-
The room is sparsely decorated: a bed in one corner, a playset in another. Legos sit scattered on the floor, mostly untouched. A little boy is huddled at his toy table, coloring rainbow circles on a piece of construction paper.
“Hi Shohei,” you say, taking a seat beside him cross-legged. “Did you miss me?”
He doesn’t even bother meeting your gaze. “You said you’d only be gone one week. You lied.”
“I got busy with work! Didn’t I tell you I picked up a second job recently? I work at a movie theater now,” you tell him, rolling the chupa chups around your mouth. “We should watch one together some time! They have a lot of new releases these days. You like Disney, right?”
“I don’t care about your second job. You’re not even good at your first job.”
You hang your head, feeling a sting in your chest. He sniffs the air, face scrunching up, “You smell like cola.”
You reach into your coat pocket and manifest another chupa chups in the flavor of raspberry. He puts down his crayon wordlessly and takes the offering, peeling away the wrapper and folding it neatly on the table like origami. For a while, the two of you are silent, enjoying your candy until you ask, “You wanna go on a walk with me outside today?”
“Ieiri-san says I’m not allowed to leave.”
You glance around the room, gaze falling to the indoor playscape that’s collecting dust in the far corner. “It’s pretty drab in here,” you say. “I say we take a walk. And we keep it a secret between you and me. How does that sound?”
“Ieiri-san said you’d say that too,” he says. Still, that doesn’t stop him from rising to his tiny little feet, rushing to the door to put on his shoes. “Where are we going?”
“Don’t know yet. Maybe we’ll get you something good to eat. What do you think about Takoyaki?”
“I hate Takoyaki.”
“Ugh, you’re right. Too heavy. We need something light. How about soba?”
“Soba’s okay,” he says, fumbling with his shoelaces.
You squat down before him, taking the laces gingerly from his grubby hands and tying them together in a neat bow. “Maybe we’ll even run into Sakura on the way.”
He’s holding something back. You can tell from the way his gaze turns, hands squirming inside the pockets of his old GAP hoodie. “Let’s go then, shall we?”
You offer him your hand to take. He shakes his head, refusing. You frown. “What is it now? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“I don’t want your hand to fall off.”
“And why would my hand fall off?”
“Because mom’s did.”
You digest the revelation quietly. The smile on your face never loses its optimism as you squat down to meet his eyeline. “You know what? It’s funny you should say that because my hand has fallen off before. You wouldn’t believe it—it was a total accident! There was a butcher’s knife, a band of oni, and a bunch of old yakuza. Long story short, things got messy and hffffffft.”
You karate chop your wrist and demonstrate the image of your hand being guillotined off.
“Anyway, I sewed it right back up with a needle and thread—so I’m all good now! It’s tied to me permanently. It’ll never come off again. See?” You turn your wrist over, showing him the soft, underside of your skin. “You can barely see the line now.”
Shohei shows a shadow of a smile. You offer him your hand again and he takes it.
-
Higuruma returns a week later for Tarkovsky’s Stalker. Ryuji rings him up at the register, but you’re too preoccupied with the new notification on your phone to notice.
The Egghead: Shohei is doing better.
The Egghead: Good work.
You don’t even want to give him the satisfaction of a reply, but you’re so bored you end up whipping up a response anyway.
You: well that’s just great, isn’t it!
The topic moves on.
The Egghead: I sent Ino to the maid café you mentioned the other day.
The Egghead: He found the sister.
He sends you the pinned locations. An Italian-styled maid café, both situated on different corners of Akihabara. You make a note of it as you receive an encrypted file of the many involved parties of interest. Photos of various women in full cosplay, showcasing domestic wiles in front of a digital camera.
You’re so engrossed in this new development you don’t even notice Higuruma is there until he says, “I didn’t see you yesterday.”
It takes you a beat to realize you’re being addressed. “Oh!” You shove away your phone, turning around to greet him with a smile. As always, he’s wearing his black suit, pin sitting right and pretty by the neck. “What a sight for sore eyes,” you say, a worthless quip as you try and recall what he’d said first. “I’m here Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”
“You work part-time,” he says, like a statement of fact, which you suppose it is.
“Sure do. You can always find me on the graveyard shift.”
“Not much of a sleeper, I take it.”
You lean up against the counter, ignoring the look of disapproval Ryuji is giving you. “More of a night owl. Just like you,” you tell him.
“Huh. Looks like we have something in common,” he says with a vague smile as he takes his leave. Once he’s gone, Ryuji gives you a sour look.
“Why are you doing that," he says.
“Doing what?” You ask.
“Flirting. That guy could be a serial killer for all you know.”
You smile cheerfully. “What makes you say that?”
“Think about it. He comes here almost every night to watch a movie at 1 a.m. in the morning. No family, no friends."
"No family? How do you know that?"
"He doesn't wear a wedding ring. But that's besides the point. I bet he’s returning from a murder right now.”
“Or maybe he’s just a nice guy who wants to get away from life a bit.”
He looks straight up offended by the suggestion, “You’re so naïve.”
-
Higuruma orders the same drink, a whiskey ginger, and promptly falls asleep.
Time is a vacuum inside the dark confines of Theater 3. You mope around in the backroom, waiting for an update from Ino or Nanami, but realize they’re probably already asleep at this hour.
Seeing as you have nothing better to do, you decide to take the aisle seat and watch the movie, three seats away from Higuruma.
You’ve missed the first half, so you’re a little lost. Granted, you really thought it would be about a stalker (in the modern, colloquial sense) and not a Stalker (sci-fi, specific nomenclature sense). Despite your disinterest in old, foreign films, you find yourself pleasantly surprised at how immersive it is.
I love your eyes, my darling friend,
Their play, so passionate and brightening,
When a sudden stare up you send,
And like a heaven-blown lightning
It’d take in all from end to end.
But there’s more that I admire,
Your eyes when they’re downcast,
In bursts of love-inspired fire,
And through the eyelash goes fast,
A somber, dull call of desire.
You don't even realize you're crying until, through your veil of tears, you make out a dark shadow. Higuruma is awake, towering over you with a tissue in his outstretched hand. You accept it without saying a word.
He pulls out the seat beside you and slots himself on the bench. The arm of your t-shirt brushes against his suit sleeve. Neither of you speak to the fact that you’re technically not supposed to be there, watching the movie with him.
-
It’s 2 p.m. when you arrive in Akihabara.
The maid café is rundown, posters peeling down the wall, pretty girls with spirals drawn in their eyeballs. Back in the day, they were beautiful. You remember they used to fill the streets in their uniforms, handing out flyers and coaxing in desperate patrons. Most of them were fashion models, hoping to be discovered. Now they’re mostly washed up has-beens and frumpy high school girls.
You walk through the front door, bells jingling as you immediately zone in on Sakura, who's taking orders from a party of tourists sitting near the kitchen. As soon as she catches sight of you, she frowns.
An older woman in a maid’s uniform approaches you. One look tells you she’s one of the washed up hostesses who’s probably outlived her glory days. Her foundation is cakey, eyebrows too thin, under-eye circles dark, lips overlined. Still clinging to outdated trends.
“Welcome home, master,” she says with no resolve, bowing in deep reverence.
As soon as her head is down, you grab her by the ponytail and drag her across the floor. Tables and chairs get toppled over as she struggles to pull away from your grasp. She starts shrieking as you tug her, with little effort, out the door of the café.
You shove her down the stairs, where she hits the concrete face-first with all the grace of a bumbling sack of potatoes. It earns a few strange stares from the people passing by, but none of them stay long enough to stop you. Once you walk down the steps, you grab her by the ponytail again and slam her into the nearest streetlight, hearing the satisfying dong! as she curses under her breath.
She doesn’t get back up, so you squat down and grab her by the crown of her hair, craning her head all the way back so that you get a nice look at the soft, underside of her neck.
“So here’s the problem,” you say. “One of my colleagues came here for tea the other day and told me you’re the one who offered him a good deal off the books, right?”
She tries to say something, but you just pull her neck back further, forcing her to swallow. “High school girls, right? Always making bad decisions, what a mess!”
You smile at her. “Well, it’s really none of my business what you choose to do with your life. I’m not here to judge you.”
“I don’t even know who you are,” she manages to muster out.
“But I know you!” You give her head a little shake. “Lending money to those desperate high school dropouts in your little cafe? Charging them obscene interest rates so they can never pay off their debts? Suggesting different services in lieu of paying cash? Innocent meet-ups with your clients?”
She tries to wriggle out of your grasp, but you slam her so hard into the pole the whole ground shakes.
She’s stunned silly as you let go. Patting out the wrinkles in your coat, you sigh. “That was no fun, right?” You gaze at her: a pretty little doll with a vacant stare as blood drips down from the crown of her hair. “So here’s where we stand,” you go on, kicking up the dirt from the ground. “You leave Sakura alone, or else I come back next time and make this so much worse for you. Are we clear?”
The laugh that escapes her mouth is cold and grating, “Go ahead, I don’t give a shit.”
“That’s what they always say. And it’s almost never true.” You reach into your pocket for a chupa chups in the flavor strawberry yogurt. “I know your type,” you go on. “You don’t care about anyone or anything, right?”
She just stares at you, cradling her face as her eye begins to swell. You motion to the people watching, which has mostly thinned out. Everyone has moved on, rushing to the train station, making their way past the crowd, trying to make their scheduled appointments. The world keeps spinning.
“Isn't that the worst feeling in the world?” You say. “You could die right now and no one would care.”
You take a look at the maid costume she’s wearing, smeared with gravel. The look on her face becomes less angry, more remorseful. “The world is indifferent to your struggle. You take from it what you can and then you move on. No one gives a shit, so why should you? Listen. I’m not judging you. I bet you had a real tough childhood. Mommy and daddy didn’t love you enough? A creepy uncle looked at you funny? Kids at school didn’t understand you? Maybe you got bullied a bit too. Maybe a professor made a pass at you because you looked like easy pickings. I get it. I do. You’ve been dealt an unfair deck of cards. No one understands your pain.”
She starts cradling the soft side of her face, which has begun to spoil. The threats will register at a later date, after the pain of her injuries have faded. For now, all she can do is cry.
You gesture to the window, where all of her maids are standing in a line, staring in shock. “I’ll just say it one last time for good measure. If I catch you near Sakura again, I’ll kill you,” you say, beaming. “Now nod if you understand.”
She does, spit dribbling down the side of her chin.
“Great. I’m glad we’re on the same page now. Nanami always told me there was no middle ground to find with degenerates like you, but I really think we’ve made it. Look at that. Look at us. Who would’ve thought? Girl power, right?”
-
Sakura doesn’t say a word as you parse through the pages of the menu, humming a cheerful tune as the waitress taking your order starts to get antsy. “I think I’m going to have crepes. With strawberries. What about you?”
“Fuck you,” she says.
“She’ll also have crepes,” you tell the waitress, handing her the menus.
As soon as she’s gone, Sakura slaps you, nail clawing through skin and drawing blood. At the sight of the carnage, she looks a little remorseful, but makes no sign of offering an apology. She opens her mouth to say something, only to clamp it shut.
Blood trickles down your cheek as you reach for a napkin from the dispenser, dabbing yourself gently. “Man, I’m so glad I’m not a teenage girl anymore. All of you are so self-absorbed,” you tell her wistfully, rolling up the napkin and shoving it in your pocket. “It must be like screaming into a void.”
She tries to say something, but all that comes out is a muffled rasp. She tries again. Nothing. Her hands wrap around her throat, trying to untangle the threads of cursed energy that you have wrapped around her.
“Good! You should be a little self-absorbed,” you say, crossing your arms over the table. “I think that’s really good practice for a teenage girl.”
You let go of the threads around her neck and take a sip of your coffee, “Now, you’ve been gone a while so we have a lot of catching up to do. So we'll start with the good news. Your brother Shohei is doing a lot better. He's been eating three meals a day and taking nice, long walks with the aides. Now for the bad news: you’re going to be tried for murder, unless you write me a witness statement."
Her face falls, “It wasn’t me.”
“I know.” You look concerned, mostly because you are. “But running away at the scene of the crime was a bad look, so we’re gonna have to talk about your game plan from here on out.”
Her face goes red, “It really wasn’t me.”
“I know,” you say again, quieter this time.
You wait a moment, studying her face as her eyes go glossy. You pass her a napkin from the dispenser as she starts weeping gently into her hands.
-
Higuruma returns three nights later for a showing of an old Kurosawa movie. You start ringing him up for a pack of red vines before he can even reach the counter.
“What happened to your face?” He asks, reaching for his wallet inside the chest pocket of his coat.
The bandage on your cheek is just beginning to bleed pink again. “Cut myself with a razor, wouldn’t you believe it?” You say. “You know. Those pesky, ingrown hairs.”
He pauses but doesn’t say much else about it. You decide to turn the subject. “So what’re you watching tonight?” You ask. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s already 4 a.m. “Or should I say, this fine morning.”
He shrugs. “Some Kurosawa film.”
“Ah.” You’re a little confused by his sudden change in demeanor. “Well, you don’t seem so thrilled about it.”
“There’s really nothing to be thrilled about,” he says. “Rarely anything good happens in a Kurosawa movie. And if it does, it’s just false advertising.”
-
It’s Rashomon. Three different accounts of the same story. You’re not a fan, having seen it as a kid, but you like the themed-drinks your manager has concocted, so you put on a happy face and head out to give your best elevator pitch.
“So get this,” you say, stopping at Higuruma’s seat in the back. “It’s called A Widow’s Treachery. Still with me?”
He offers a curt, unsure nod.
“A half-squeezed blood orange, one shot of tequila, and a splash of grenadine. Topped with a lemon garnish. Lots of fruit. Lots of Vitamin C. You could say it’s just about 75 percent good for you. Voila! A Widow’s Treachery.”
He considers it hesitantly before telling you, “That’s some name.”
“I know.” You scratch the back of your neck, sighing. “I really pushed for Widow’s Duplicity just so we weren’t spoiling the whole film, but my manager said no. She already laminated the menus.”
He gives in, slowly, a flutter of a smile forming on his face as he returns to a more relaxed slouch. “Treachery is a little more provocative.”
You smile. “That makes me a little sad. I really thought you’d be on my side for this.”
“I am on your side,” he says.
The flirting is a good distraction, you think. You’ve been pretty bored, and there’s nothing else to do to pass the time. When you arrive in the backroom, you make his drink, garnish it with two lemons, and return outside where you find him already dozing off, arms crossed over his chest, neck craned back.
You take a sip, slide into the empty seat next to him, and watch the movie go by.
-
It’s 6 a.m. when you clock out. The sun hasn’t risen yet but it will soon.
When you step outside, the first snowfall of winter starts floating down gently from above, coating the concrete in a film of white. Twilight drapes virgin pink across the sky and you hold yourself as tightly as you can, feeling the warmth of your arms underneath the fabric of your trench coat.
Higuruma is standing by the curb, watching it all.
“Hey stranger,” you call out.
He twitches out of his reverie, shielding his eyes from the rising sun to look at you. As you meet him halfway, you notice he looks a little different. The lights casts a shadow over his chin; his dark circles look extra bold; his hunch is a little more pronounced.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” You ask him.
-
The two of you shuffle into the closest Starbucks, taking the table at the quietest corner of the room. You sit by the glass, gazing up at cloudy skies. “What’s your drink?” asks Higuruma, shrugging off his peacoat and hanging it over the seatback of his chair.
You prop up one elbow against the table, leaning against your clenched fist. “Coffee is fine, but aren’t I supposed to be the one treating?” And for good measure, you tack on: “I’m the one who asked you out.”
He waits a moment, hands draping over the shoulder of his coat, “Consider it a repayment.”
“For?”
“The company,” he says, with a faint silhouette of a smile.
-
His name is Hiromi Higuruma and he tells you he’s lawyer.
You look somewhat amused that this prospect is finally presenting itself, but you mull on it a bit before taking a sip of your coffee. Once your cup is shoved aside, you thread your hands underneath your chin and smile. “Then … sensei?”
The mindless bit of flirtation gets ignored as he says despondently, “You’re not my client.” His gaze falls to his cappuccino and he sloshes around the contents. “You don’t have to call me that. Hiromi is fine.”
He seems a little down about it, for reasons beyond casual conversation. You cock your head to the side, studying his face. His expression is so dim, it’s like he’s already made up his mind about who you are and what you do, neither of which you’ve revealed yet. “Work must be pretty stressful then,” you say, carefully, hoping to move the conversation forward.
“Most jobs are.” He smiles wryly. “My bed is covered in boxes and papers. I can’t sleep at home. The movies help. It’s like listening to the background noise of an office at 2 p.m. when the caffeine is starting to wear off.”
“Aw. And here I thought you came all that way just to visit little old me.”
“Actually, I’ve been doing it before you started working there,” he says, shifting his gaze to the ceiling, as to do the math in his head.
The flirtation, again, goes unnoticed. You’ve come to realize he tends to cherry-pick what he wants to respond to, depending on how sincere you’re being. It gives you the added task of having to read yourself in addition to reading him. “So. Do you take pro bono work?” You ask, suddenly.
He arches a brow at the sudden change in conversation. “Here and there. The code of ethics encourages us to meet a certain threshold every year.” A pause. “Why?”
“Just making conversation,” you say. “I assumed a criminal defense attorney would mostly want to be working for a paycheck.”
“Well, there are a few schools of thought. When you’re starting out, you want to get as much experience as you can under your belt, so if you see an interesting case, you might take it pro bono. It may surprise you, but not all lawyers are blood-sucking leeches looking to get the best cut for themselves. Altruism, prestige—these are things some of us still hold in high regard. Plus, having a good reputation is important in my field. If I see a case that warrants my interest, and I feel that it’s important enough to be represented, I’ll take it pro bono.”
You watch him take a sip of his cappuccino. “Also,” he goes on. “I never said I was a criminal defense attorney.”
He's got you there.
“I’d appreciate if you told me up front what your intentions are,” he says, voice taking on a much cooler edge. “You're not asking just to ask, are you?”
The smile on your face doesn’t falter as you shove your coffee aside, cardboard scraping against ceramic. “Okay. Then I’ll cut to the chase,” you say. “I’m working on a case that’s keeping me in a bit of a bind right now. It involves murder, some children, a few false suspects, and some stuff I’ve yet to figure out.”
“That’s not a lot to go off.”
“I know. The thing is, I’d have to show you what happened for you to believe me.”
He considers it a moment, studying your face. “That cut,” he says. “How did you get it?”
Your hand instinctively reaches up to touch the bandage, which has already dried up with your blood. “And try not to lie this time,” he says.
-
Two months earlier.
-
There’s blood splattered inside the microwave. You take one look at it, humming a sweet tune before shutting the door with a bang.
With Ino, you reassess the kitchen in the context. Parents dead, kids alive. You shove your hands into the pockets of your trench coat, gazing at the unrecognizable, fleshy pulps that litter the ground, greasing up the floor in a dark red sheen. There’s hair scattered everywhere, clumps of it gathered underneath a leg of the dining table. Yellow tape zigzags from all the angled corners of the room, cordoning off the worst of the carnage.
“Well, it looks pretty bad here,” you remark with a happy grin. With the toe of your leather boot, you kick around what you think is a kidney—maybe a spleen. “So. Whose insides do these belong to?”
“The Okazakis,” says the police chief, a surly, middle-aged man named Yado.
You gaze up at the ceiling, watching the blood drip down in big, fat globs. Ino squats down, lifting the hem of his mask to study the black gunk between the tiles. “You have any suspects so far?”
Yado glances over his shoulder, ascertaining the location of his men, who are collecting evidence from the bedroom. “Their daughter, Sakura,” he says, voice lowered to a whisper. “She ran away the night of the incident. Apparently there was some uproar about what she was doing in her spare time. It’s the only motivation we’ve been able to ascertain. That makes her our primary suspect right now.”
He turns to look at you, “Their son, Shohei, is in your custody. We handed him off to Shoko this morning.”
“Yep, I met him already. Cute kid,” you say, still humming. “The good news is: I don’t think it’s Sakura.”
“What makes you say that?” asks Yado, with the mild hope it might actually elicit something useful on your part.
“I just have a good feeling about it.”
-
After you have Ino scan the rest of the scene, the two of you depart. The moon has just settled into the sky, the air chilly with the smell of winter and firewood. “Still no snow,” you say, kicking your leather boots against the concrete. “So lame.” You notice he looks a little green in the face, so you put a hand on his shoulder and ask, “What’s with the sad face, Ino-kun? You did really well today!”
“Whatever. Let’s just get out of here. This house gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
You take a look at your watch. “Sorry. I actually have somewhere to be tonight.”
“It’s 1 a.m. in the morning,” he says, arching a brow. “What … you got a hot date or something?”
“Something like that,” you say, patting him gently on the shoulder and taking off towards the sidewalk, where a cab is waiting for you.
-
You tell Higuruma everything you can, but keep mum on most of the jujutsu nonsense he would probably find repulsive.
For the most part, he just listens, interjecting every once in a while to clarify a muddled detail. (Did Sakura arrive home before or after her parents? What time did their uncle stop by? Did he come inside to drop off Shohei, or did he drop him off outside?) When you finish walking him through the timeline, he has only a modicum of interest left on his face.
“You’re still leaving out crucial details,” he says. “I can’t put a lot of stock into something I don’t understand fully.”
“I know.” You decide not to bullshit him about the position you’re putting him in. “And I’m sorry about that. But I promise you it wasn’t Sakura.”
“That’s not going to hold up well in court,” he says, painfully disenchanted, as if telegraphing this message with years of practice. “If not her, who do you think it is?”
You drain the remaining contents of your coffee, gazing out the window where the snow clumps in clusters. “I don’t think. I know,” you tell him. “But it’s easier if I showed you.”
-
Shohei glances up from his stack of drawings as you walk into the room. “This is Higuruma-sensei,” you tell him. “He’s an old friend of mine, so be nice, okay?”
Shohei bows his head in respect before picking his crayon back up. You gesture for Higuruma to take a seat beside you at the table, which he does after setting his briefcase down on the ground. “How old are you, Shohei?”
“Why is this strange man talking to me?” He asks, penciling down a smiley face and filling it in with his favorite red crayon, so overused it’s been ground down to the stub.
Looking back up at Higuruma, you tack on: “He's five.”
Shohei considers it before saying, somewhat ruefully, “You two look like boyfriend-girlfriend.”
You notice he’s a little icy about the whole situation, so you tell him with an exasperated sigh, “What’s with the long face? You know you’re the only one for me, right?”
He just shoots Higuruma a frosty glare before returning to his drawing, crayon getting more and more aggressive on paper. You put your hand gently on his bony little shoulder. He stops, looking to meet your gaze with annoyed eyes. “Will you show him what you showed me the other day?”
“Ieiri-san said not to show anyone.”
“I know, but do it for me, okay?”
This seems to satisfy him as he acquiesces. You stand up first, gesturing for Higuruma to follow suit. He does, the joints of his knees cracking as he rises to his feet. You grab the nearest stuffed animal and place it on the table.
Shohei shuffles his drawings together and gives them to you. “They're for you,” he says. “Please take care of them.”
“Okay. I will.”
“Promise,” he says, eyebrows wrinkling in irritation. “They’re important.”
“Okay. I promise.”
He resumes his seat at the table, folding his arms over the surface and staring at the stuffed elephant dead in the eye.
Higuruma leans against the wall, not sure what he’s looking at; instead, he glances your way, meeting your gaze and shrugging, as to say sure, why not.
No sooner does he offer you that look does the table start trembling. The lights flicker on and off, and he stiffens his spine, looking around, thinking it must be an earthquake. You gesture towards the table where Shohei is sitting and he follows your gaze.
The elephant explodes.
-
It’s 10 a.m. when you arrive at Higuruma’s office, filled to the ceiling with boxes and boxes of papers.
He signs you in with the secretary and, on the way to the conference room, introduces you to his colleague, Shimizu. A pretty young woman with a bob cut who looks completely overworked. You tell her you like her hair. She blushes as Higuruma ushers you into his private office, where he sits you down on the couch before taking the seat beside you.
You tuck your legs in, curling up and leaning against the back cushion with one elbow propped up. “It was an accident,” you tell him. “He saw his parents fighting with his sister—fists got thrown, he freaked out, and hfffft.”
You make a sound akin to a head being lopped off. He grimaces at the image.
“That’s—I—dear god.” He’s at a loss for words, still trying to comprehend what he just witnessed. “I need a drink.”
Still, you look unmoved. “It wasn’t his fault,” you say. Higuruma is quiet. You can slowly feel him slipping away, so you go on. “He’s just a child.”
“Being a child doesn’t absolve you of murder.”
“He acted in self-defense. He was scared.”
“What does it benefit you, defending him like this?” He asks. When he catches you mulling for an answer, he goes on. “What are you getting out of this?”
“Nothing.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I know it’s in your profession to be cynical, but you have to understand this is my job. If I don't stand up for these kids, no one will.”
It stuns him: how close to home the sentiment hits. After a long moment of silence, he realizes you look exhausted. Past all that smile and good cheer is just another tired girl fumbling around in the dark for some vestige of hope. He sighs and gets up from the couch, calling Shimizu to get him a cup of coffee. She grumbles something incomprehensible before heading to the kitchenette.
“Let’s take a break,” he says. “And start over again. This time, from the beginning.”
-
“Jujutsu has been around longer than our legal system,” you say. “There aren’t many—any, actually—sorcerers who practice law, let alone, know the right way to accommodate it in the context of our powers. It’s like the wild west. The court of law hands off what they don’t understand to us, and we have one guy playing judge, jury, and executioner.”
“How do they decide that person?”
“They don’t. It’s been the same man for the past thirty years. You know how in ancient times, democracies would nominate leaders to take charge during times of strife or war? Like Caesar.”
“Caesar never relinquished his power.”
“Exactly,” you say.
He considers it for a moment. “I don't know how much help I can be."
“A lot more than you think, actually. Negotiating isn’t my strong suit,” you tell him, leaving out the part where your strong suit is generally strong-arming, bullying, and inciting fear. “The problem is, if you don’t step in, it’s very likely—no, it’s almost certain that Shohei will receive the death penalty.”
-
It’s evening when you take your leave. Higuruma hasn’t made up his mind about you, or the case you’ve presented him with. You realize, as you've spent the majority of the day together, the more you get to know him, the harder time you have reading him.
You put on your coat and he offers to walk you to the door. Shimuzu gives you a curious look on the way out, waving goodbye as you take your leave.
“It’s snowing again,” you say, staring up at the sky.
Higuruma studies your face, the look of wonder so apparent it’s like looking at someone who’s seeing snow for the very first time. “Did you really work at the theater?”
You stuff your hands in your pocket, feeling the crunch of your chupa chups wrappers. “I did.”
He takes in the look on your face for one second more before turning away, “I can’t tell if you’re lying or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes you’re so obviously transparent it’s like watching a kid try to lie about cutting class. Other times, you’re completely opaque. Like staring at a wall,” he says. “The mystery isn’t even compelling. It’s just annoying.”
You pull out a lollipop from your pocket, peeling off the wrapper, the smell of mango punching the air. “Do you have a price?” You ask him. “The truth is, I’m pretty desperate right now. I can’t pay you, but I’d do anything else, really.”
As soon as the insinuation rings clear, he sighs, shaking his head. “No. That’s, uh—no.”
Snow clumps on your eyelashes as you continue sucking on your lollipop. “I meant if you had any enemies. I can be pretty persuasive in other ways,” you tell him. “Any rival law firms?”
He pauses again, realizing the insinuation was meant for something else. “You really shouldn’t be using violence as a method to intimidate other people.”
You take the suggestion in stride, quiet for some time. Without thinking, you pluck the lollipop from between your lips, holding it out in offering. He stares at it with half-lidded eyes, the sheen of artificial yellow looking so glossy and inviting.
And then he takes it.
“Just sit on it for a little bit,” you tell him, walking backwards towards the train. “And text me when you have your answer.”
“I don’t even have your phone number," he says, holding your unexpected gift.
“Check your pocket!” You say, ducking into the station.
He does, reaching in to find your business card with a name and number printed in dark blue.
On the back, a note:
01/04 – Beauty and the Beast. Handsome stranger, call me?