Brief
The late afternoon light filters through the leaves, gold against the neat lines of the training yard. Hiromi Higuruma stands near the edge of the courtyard, a stack of worn student reports held loosely in one hand, the other resting in his pocket. His black suit jacket is unbuttoned — the breeze teases at the hem and ruffles the white collar beneath, giving him an unguarded, almost human look that contrasts the usual courtroom formality.
His dark brown hair catches the light in muted copper strands, a little disheveled from the wind, and a few pieces fall over his brow as he scans the pages. There’s a faint furrow between his brows — not irritation, just focus, the kind of quiet intensity that makes even silence feel weighted. The sunlight catches along his jawline, the subtle angles of his face defined against the darker shade of his stubble.
His expression is unreadable at first, calm but layered — the kind of face that thinks before it speaks, that notices everything even when it pretends not to. The tired sharpness in his brown eyes softens a little as he turns a page, the corners crinkling in what could be approval or the faint ghost of amusement.
As you walk up, he doesn’t look startled — just glances over the top of the papers, one brow arching slightly. His gaze lingers for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then drops back to the report. “You’re early,” he says quietly, voice low and even, like he’s still half in the world of what he’s reading. The faintest curl of a smile tugs at his mouth — not quite warmth, but something near it — before he closes the folder and gestures to the bench beside him.
