Chapter Text
The room was swathed in the oppressive stillness of the predawn hours, that quiet, hollow time when the world seems to hold its breath.
Giyuu Tomioka blinked, his eyelashes heavy and stiff, as consciousness drifted back to him like sediment settling in water. His head throbbed with a persistent, rhythmic ache, a dull percussion that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He felt cold—not the refreshing chill of a summer morning, but a deep, penetrating freeze that seemed to seep into his very marrow, numbing his limbs and making his skin crawl.
He pushed himself up, his palm instinctively seeking purchase on the glass surface of the coffee table to leverage his weight. The glass was freezing, biting into his skin, but his focus was entirely on the nausea roiling in his gut. As he shifted his weight, his hand slid slightly, and he felt a strange, viscous resistance.
He frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to clear the fog from his mind.
He pulled his hand back, and the movement was jerky, uncoordinated.
He stared at his palm.
It was coated in a dark, tacky substance that shimmered sickeningly in the dim light filtering through the curtains. It was deep crimson, thick and drying around his fingernails. Panic, sharp and electric, surged through him, instantly banishing the remnants of his slumber. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
"What..." he whispered, his voice raspy and foreign to his own ears.
He wiped his hand on his trousers, but the smear only grew, a frantic, useless gesture. His eyes darted across the room, desperate to find an explanation, a reason, anything to ground him in reality. His gaze landed just a few feet away, toward the shadows near the doorway.
"Tsutako?"
The name was a prayer, a desperate plea for her to laugh at him, to tell him he was having a nightmare, to scold him for sleeping in the living room. But the figure on the floor didn't move. She was lying at an impossible angle, her limbs splayed with a finality that made Giyuu’s blood run even colder.
He lunged forward, his knees hitting the hardwood with a dull, sickening thud. He didn't care about the pain. He reached her in two desperate strides, his hands trembling so violently he could barely bring them to her shoulders.
"Tsutako! Hey, wake up!"
He gripped her shoulders and rolled her over, but as her head lolled back, the sight that greeted him stole the breath from his lungs. Her face, usually so warm and full of gentle grace, was pale, porcelain-white and utterly devoid of life. A jagged wound marred her neck, the source of the carnage that now painted the floorboards.
The dam broke.
A sob, raw and jagged, tore from his throat, followed by a deluge of tears that burned his eyes. "No, no, no, please—Tsutako, please!" He clutched her cold, unresponsive body to his chest, his own clothes becoming soaked in her blood. He was weeping openly now, his shoulders shaking with the violence of his grief. He didn't hear them at first—the heavy, rhythmic thumping of boots against the hallway floorboards.
"Police! Get down! Hands in the air, now!"
The door to the living room was kicked open with such violence that the frame shuddered. Bright, blinding lights cut through the gloom, searing his retinas. Giyuu flinched, shielding his face, but he didn't move away from her side. He couldn't.
"I said hands in the air! Move away from the body!"
Two officers rushed forward, their weapons drawn, faces contorted with urgency and suspicion.
Giyuu’s voice was shattered, barely a coherent sound through the waves of agony and panic. He looked up at the officers, his eyes wide, glassy, and pleading. "You got it all wrong!" he cried out, his voice cracking harshly. "I would never hurt my sister. I would never!"
He scrambled to his feet, hands raised but still stained crimson, his entire frame trembling. He looked from one officer to the other, desperation clawing at his chest. "Please, you have to believe me. Please," he begged, his voice dropping to a whimpering, broken tone as the reality of the situation threatened to swallow him whole. "I just woke up and found her like this! I didn't do it!"
"Shut up!" the officer barked, rushing forward. They didn't see a brother grieving; they saw a suspect covered in evidence. They didn't see the tragedy; they saw the crime.
Before Giyuu could even finish his plea, he was forced to the ground.
Rough hands grabbed his arms, twisting them behind his back until his shoulders screamed in protest. The cold bite of steel handcuffs snapped around his wrists, grounding him in the harsh reality of his situation.
"You have the right to remain silent," the officer recited, his voice monotone and practiced. As Giyuu tried to turn his head to look back at his sister one last time, the officer shoved his head down sharply, pushing his face toward the cold, metal frame of the cruiser’s door. "Get in the car. You’ll have plenty of time to lie in the interrogation room."
The world became a blur of blue and red lights, the wail of sirens, and the muffled chatter of neighbors watching from their windows. Giyuu sat in the metal cage of the car, staring at the floorboards, his mind cycling through the same three images: the glass table, his blood-stained hand, and his sister’s empty eyes.
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The interrogation room was worse. It was a sensory deprivation chamber designed to break spirits. White walls, a single metal table, a chair that wobbled, and a mirror that Giyuu knew, even in his stupor, was likely one-way glass.
The detectives were relentless. They didn't want the truth; they wanted a confession that fit their narrative. They laid out photos, they pointed at his clothes, they dissected his relationship with his sister, looking for cracks, for resentment, for any motive that would turn a tragedy into a murder case.
"We found the weapon in the kitchen, Giyuu," one detective said, his voice dripping with false empathy. "Your prints are all over the handle. Just tell us what happened. Was it an argument? Did she provoke you?"
Giyuu stared at the table, his throat dry, his mind completely blank. He couldn't process their words. Every time he opened his mouth to deny it, the image of Tsutako flashed before him, and the words died in his throat, replaced by a suffocating, heavy despair.
"I didn't..." he finally managed to croak, but the detective cut him off immediately.
"You didn't what? You didn't mean to? That’s okay, we understand accidents happen. Just tell us it was an accident."
The pressure was mounting, a physical weight pushing down on his chest, threatening to crush his ribs. He felt his resolve fracturing. The isolation of the room, the relentless badgering, the overwhelming grief—it was too much. He was on the verge of nodding, of just saying anything to make the noise stop.
Just as the detective leaned in, teeth bared in a predator's grin, the heavy steel door creaked open. A man walked in with sharp, jagged movements, his presence immediately commanding the room. He carried an aura of controlled aggression, his eyes scanning the space with predatory intensity.
"Mr. Tomioka, stop talking," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly command that cut through the tension.
He pulled out the chair next to Giyuu, the legs screeching against the floor, and settled in as if he owned the room. The detectives, momentarily stunned by the intrusion, scrambled to regain their authority.
"Who the hell are you?" the lead detective demanded, his face flushing with indignation.
The newcomer didn't blink. He adjusted his suit jacket, his expression unreadable and hardened by years of navigating systems just like this one.
"My name is Sanemi Shinazugawa," he said, his gaze never leaving the detectives. "I'm his lawyer."