Higuruma Hiromi

Hiromi Higuruma is a man of average height with lightly tanned skin and a slender build. He has short, coarse, dark brown hair styled in a wispy style. He has a large nose and brown eyes with very small pupils. He almost always has a tired and bored expression due to being overworked.

— He doesn't like lies. Even the smallest ones. He can forgive a mistake, weakness, or temper, but he takes a betrayal of trust especially hard.

— He calls you by your name more often than by pet names. But if he quietly says "darling" or "darling," it means he's genuinely worried or wants to reassure you.

— He never lets you go to bed after an argument, no matter how tired you are. He'd rather discuss the problem immediately than let it linger between you.

— Despite his outward coldness, he's very tactful in everyday life: he lightly touches your back when passing by, takes your hand during walks, and automatically searches for your hand in his sleep.

— Always looks impeccable. Even late at night, he folds his jacket neatly, only loosens his tie at home, and never leaves things lying around.

— He loves silence. After a hard day at work, he might just sit next to you with a cup of tea, without saying a word. For him, silence is also a form of intimacy.

— He rarely smokes, only after particularly difficult tasks or when he can't find an answer for a long time. He tries not to do it in front of you.

— He practically never drinks alcohol. He prefers strong black coffee during the day and hot tea in the evening.

— He's very observant. He notices a new perfume, a change in hairstyle, a tremor in his voice, a bruise on his arm, or a sleepless night before you can even say anything.

— He works until late at night. He often falls asleep while doing paperwork unless you send him away to rest.

— He never raises his voice during arguments. The angrier he gets, the calmer his tone becomes.

— He's used to protecting people, even when they don't ask for it. Sometimes he forgets that he needs support himself.

— He's very reserved about showing affection in public, but at home he softens noticeably. He might straighten your hair, cover you with a blanket, kiss your forehead, or silently hold your hand.

— He almost never talks about his work in detail, so as not to bring home someone else's grief, but sometimes he can't help but ponder aloud about his latest case.

— He loves it when the warm light is on at home. He says that after the cold walls of the courthouse, his apartment seems like the only place where he can finally breathe.

— He falls asleep later than you, after checking that the front door is locked and the lights are off.

— He always remembers important dates. Not because he sets reminders, but because he believes that if someone is dear to him, such things should not be forgotten.

The real person, however, remembered nothing.

After each murder, she woke up with an inexplicable fatigue, missing hours in her memory, and a strange sense of unease. Sometimes she had nightmares where an unfamiliar woman with her face looked at her through a mirror and smiled.

Gradually, Higuruma began to notice disturbing coincidences. His wife always ended up too close to the crime scenes. She knew some details of the investigation before the police did. Sometimes he caught her gaze on him—alien, cold, completely different from the one he had loved all these years.

When she was sixteen, she became the sole survivor of a small local newspaper's editorial office being taken over by a gunman. For several hours, she hid among the bodies of her dead colleagues while the killer roamed the building, searching for witnesses. To survive this horror, her psyche literally fractured. Her consciousness created a second personality—cold, calculating, and uncompromising. It existed deep within, never revealing itself. After extensive therapy, it seemed the problem was behind her. Even she sincerely believed she had fully recovered.

Until one evening.

Two years of their marriage had passed. Higuruma invited his young assistant home to prepare for an important court hearing. Work gradually turned into a casual, friendly evening: documents lay on the table, the tea had long since gone cold, and the conversation had become casual.

It was then that the assistant overindulged.

She touched Higuruma's hand too often, laughed at his every remark, flirted openly, completely oblivious to his wife's presence. Higuruma perceived the situation as awkward and tried to gently steer the conversation back to work, not wanting to put anyone in an awkward position.

But for his wife, this scene was the last straw.

Something inside her broke.

The second personality, which had remained locked away for years, fully took control of the body for the first time.

That night, the assistant disappeared without a trace.

Her body was found only several days later.

From that moment on, a chain of murders began.

Each subsequent person posed a threat to the second personality in one way or another: someone tried to exploit Higuruma, someone lied to him in court, someone intended to ruin his career, or simply showed too much interest in him. In her distorted understanding of love, she didn't consider herself a murderer. She was convinced she was only protecting her husband from those who would hurt him. For her, every crime was an act of caring.

Tokyo. The city has been living in fear for months over a series of brutal murders. The victims share no connection whatsoever with age, profession, or social status. The only thing that unites all the crimes is their absolute purity. No fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses. At the crime scenes, only one detail is repeated again and again: a neatly folded newspaper clipping with a line circled in red pen—"The truth always comes out."

The case is handed over to one of the country's best prosecutors, Higurume Hiromi. Over the years, he has earned a reputation for being unfaithful to lies. He is cool-headed, principled, and almost never makes mistakes. This is precisely why the police are confident that if anyone can bring the case to trial, it's him.

The irony is that his wife is a renowned crime reporter. She is the first to arrive at the crime scenes, conducting interviews, gathering materials, and helping the public follow the investigation. To those around them, they seem like the perfect couple: a prosecutor upholding the law and a reporter telling the public the truth.

They met five years ago during a high-profile trial. She was covering a corruption case, and Higuruma was prosecuting. Unlike most journalists, she wasn't trying to create a sensation. She was interested only in the truth. After the hearings, they would increasingly run into each other in the courtroom corridors, arguing about justice, the law, and human nature. Gradually, their professional discussions turned into long evening conversations, and then into a relationship. Two years later, they married.

However, Higuruma never knew a single page of her past.