I knew then I wasn't young anymore, but I still didn't understand. I don't think I wanted to.

May 7th, 2018

If there was anything Iwaizumi Hajime had to say about prison, it would be that everything seemed to resolve around a rigid sets of rules. Every day, he would repeat the same activities—it rarely changed. He, along with his five other inmates, would wake up at six-thirty in the morning to stow their bedding away and freshen up. There would usually be a prison guard watching them do their business through eye gap in the wrought-iron door. It was invasive, but Iwaizumi was used to it—he lived with five other men, after all, and there wasn't any such thing as privacy in such small confines. His cheeks would not grow red from an extra pair of eyes, no matter how evil or perverted they were.

At least he had that meager shred of dignity left. It was the least he owed himself.

Because Iwaizumi Hajime was an innocent man.

For the past two years, Iwaizumi had spent them mostly thinking. About anything and nothing at all—it was all there was left for him to do during the quiet hours in this place.

"Excuse me," said a man with a shaved head as he jostled past Iwaizumi. Without warning, though, Iwaizumi's arm struck out and he yanked his fellow prisoner back by the collar of his shirt.

"Oi," he reprimanded, "You're constipated, aren't you? You're going last, Hiroomi."

Hiroomi—a stooped, pathetic, rat-like creature of a man—sneered at Iwaizumi, displaying his large front teeth for them all to see. But he did not argue—the eyes of all five of his inmates were staring at him with little sympathy. "Fuck. It's the beans, man."

"It's always the beans," another man, Aratama, affirmed nonchalantly. He had high cheekbones that made his face look sallow, and his eyes were sunken in. Iwaizumi didn't look much better. As if Hiroomi were a mere child, Aratama brushed him aside to use the sink. It took him maybe ten or so seconds to splash his face and towel off, the rest forming a single file line behind him.

In a way, it represented their social order. Aratama, the cell's de facto leader, was up first, followed by Banzai, Iwaizumi, Fuchigami, Ueshiba, and—finally—Hiroomi.

"Ah, geez," Fuchigami fanned himself with his hand affectedly before covering his mouth, which was agape in a yawn, "I hate these early mornings..."

Out of all of them, Fuchigami was probably the best-looking. He was feminine by appearance, and had garnered a lot of attention from inmates and guards alike in the past. He was a troublesome one—he'd been moved around many cells for the past few months, in for a triple homicide.

Ueshiba said nothing. He couldn't, because he had no tongue.

Iwaizumi had discovered this last year, when he saw Ueshiba eat for the first time.

Once they were all relatively clean, roll call was taken, then it was off to breakfast after a mandatory room inspection for contraband.

Iwaizumi, holding a tray of miso soup, beans, and rice, sat down at his cell-assigned table. Aratama and Ueshiba sat on either side of him, while Banzai, Fuchigami, and Hiroomi sat opposite the former three. Breakfast was eaten in silence. It was the norm—conversation was not allowed, and the cafeteria was heavily monitored by prison guards and security cameras alike.

"Three-hundred and four," Iwaizumi droned anyway, under his breath. He had noticed Ueshiba tapping his index finger on the handle of his spoon. "There are three-hundred and four grains of rice on your tray, Ueshiba-san."

Instantly, Ueshiba relaxed. Then he began to shovel food into his mouth at breakneck speeds.

Shit, Iwaizumi noticed a guard coming their way in his peripheral, This is gonna end badly...

"Hey!" the guard barked, slapping Ueshiba upside the head with one calloused hand. "Eat properly! Stop slobbering like an animal!"

Iwaizumi's grip around his spoon tightened.

Ueshiba whimpered, and the guard reached for his baton. Iwaizumi stiffened when he felt Aratama reach behind him and push Ueshiba's forehead into the table.

"Sorry," Aratama said to the officer, his voice deep and controlled. "He is deeply sorry for his filth."

The guard glared at Aratama. Iwaizumi had paused in his eating, though he didn't dare make eye contact with either of the two men. Finally, in what seemed like an age, the guard relented. "Make sure he cleans up after himself. Tch. Disgusting."

The day dragged on.

Their cell was working in the gardens today. The prison prided themselves for being self-sustaining—they grew a number of fruits and vegetables that served as the prisoners' food supply. Rice and packets of instant miso soup were ordered in from outside, though Iwaizumi had heard that the Chief Warden enjoyed bragging that—if there was more space—he would make them earn their own rice as well.

After long hours working under the sun to plant some potatoes, Iwaizumi straightened and wiped sweat off his brow with the back of one hand. There wasn't much to it, but the afternoons were probably his favorite time of the day. His lower back ached from hunching over so much, and his calves throbbed from squatting every five minutes to pack dirt around the seedlings or fish out more seedlings from the dirt crate.

Sometimes he would think to himself a fleeting opinion.

This isn't so bad.

Somebody howled in pain.

Iwaizumi turned, expression hardening as he saw Hiroomi being dragged off by two prison officers. They threw him onto the ground and began to beat him with their batons, other prisoners moving aside and largely ignoring the incident.

He was not fond of Hiroomi. He didn't think anyone in their cell was.

But this is wrong.

"Who are you to think that?"

Iwaizumi nearly flinched. Fuck. I said that aloud.

"Ohoho, you almost sounded like a good guy back there," Fuchigami laughed airily. "I've never met a man like you before, Hajime-kun. If I didn't know any better," he gazed at him with hooded eyes, "I'd say that you're an innocent man. But we're all in here for a reason, now, aren't we?"

"Tch." Sometimes, Fuchigami reminded him too much of someone else. "Shut up, you piece of shit." No. He's not anything like him at all.

"Now, now, there's no need to be judgmental. Can't we just talk—murderer to murderer?"

If Iwaizumi had less self-control, he would've made himself a murderer right there. "That's not all you did. You're fucking sick in the head."

"Why?" Fuchigami blinked, then looked down at one of the colored badges sewn onto his uniform—one that Iwaizumi didn't have. "Because I raped those men?"

Iwaizumi shoved his shovel into the dirt, digging out the next hole for the seedlings and pretending Fuchigami hadn't spoken at all. He picked up the pace, eventually putting a rather noticeable distance between Fuchigami and himself; the rapist moved languidly in his potato planting.

Instead, he found himself in close proximity to Banzai. Like Hiroomi, his head was also close-shaven. Iwaizumi's own head had been shaven in the past, though it was starting to grow out now. Soon, he figured, the guards would shave it again. Out of all of them, Banzai had the most bulk, his biceps out-sizing Iwaizumi's and Aratama's with effortless ease. Because of this, not many of the prison wardens dared to pick on him too often.

Together, the two worked in silence.

Iwaizumi was glad for this.

He knew Banzai had dismembered his corpses before pissing on them.

Lunch passed by all too quickly, then it was to the woodwork garage for Iwaizumi and his cellmates. Like he had done so many times before, Iwaizumi set up his workstation and flicked on the rotating circular saw. He no longer grimaced at the sight of it—of the blades that could cut through bone.

He did, however, wonder how many people had successfully killed themselves here. For many, working in the garage was a golden opportunity. Unfortunately (or fortunately; Iwaizumi had no idea at this point) for them, prisoners on suicide watch were never let inside here.

A small sigh of relief escaped his chapped lips. At least in here, he didn't have the hot sun beating down on him.

"What are you waiting for?!" a guard yelled, starting to approach him. He must have noticed his brief loitering. The guards were always seeking to punish them in some way. "Get to work!"

"Yessir," Iwaizumi replied monotonously, keeping his head low. Thick, ropy muscle pulsed outward against the skin of his upper arms as he began to cut the wood, careful not to lose a finger to the spinning saw.

At some point, Hiroomi had rejoined them. He worked stiffly, as if bruising on his limbs was keeping him from working at maximum efficiency.

A morbid side of Iwaizumi imagined him falling face first into the saw.

As five o'clock in the evening approached, work slowed to a steady stop. The prisoners were rounded up and escorted back to their cells. They had maybe ten or fifteen minutes to themselves before a second room inspection and reflection time.

Iwaizumi's whole body ached, but he didn't complain as he settled on the tatami mats with his legs stretched out. None of them did—not even Hiroomi, who was prone to being more outspoken about the workings of the prison.

"Good job today, everyone," Aratama congratulated. "You all worked hard."

Banzai grunted, while Iwaizumi simply nodded, not finding the need for verbal response.

"Aww~!" gushed Fuchigami, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're so cute when you try to act all tsundere."

"You don't have to ruin everything, you know," snapped Hiroomi, edging away from Fuchigami.

Fuchigami shrugged. "I know my boundaries. Certainly more than you do." Ignoring Hiroomi's choice words at his remark, he continued, "A little boost in the morale around here wouldn't hurt anyone. I know we're all bad guys who did bad things—I mean, I'm on death row with everyone's favorite Banzai—but come on."

This coming from the only murdering rapist in the room... Iwaizumi glared tiredly at the wall, trying to tune out the conversation. He didn't need to hear this. These words weren't meant for him.

"You're innocent, Hajime. You—you shouldn't even be here. You don't have to be here."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulders sagging from an invisible, crushing weight.

Ten minutes and a room inspection passed. Hiroomi was scolded by the warden for a crinkle in his bedroll.

A blink of an eye later, Iwaizumi was kneeling in seiza—handcuffed and gagged—in a small rectangular room with no one to chatter into his ear about aliens and volleyball. He simply sat and stared into the never-ending darkness. If he tried to move even an inch to either side of him, he would find his shoulder meeting the wall.

Reflection time. For twenty minutes, he would be here for the purpose of reflecting upon his sins.

The only time where he would be utterly alone with nothing but his thoughts to occupy him.

He trembled.

"Iwa-chan! Iwa-chan, don't ignore me!"

"Iwa-chan, wanna go get ramen?"

"Iwa-chan! We won!"

"Hey, Iwa-chan... I... Never mind."

"I love you, Iwa-ch—Hajime."

"... we find the defendant, Iwaizumi Hajime, guilty for the murder of Oikawa Tooru."

"Son, I believe in you."

Taking a deep breath, Iwaizumi buried his face into his hands and gritted his teeth until his jaw ached.

January 2nd, 2013

Two weeks had passed.

Fourteen days since he had been placed into this hellhole. They said they would move him, someday, to a more secure prison in Tokyo.

One of his eyes swollen black and blue, Iwaizumi lay on the grimy floor, his cheek pressed against the floorboards. It was a room which they used for solitary confinement.

He had made the mistake of asking for seconds during breakfast, and his unwilling penance printed on his skin as bruises ranging from grey to purple.

Someone, please... A single tear slipped from between his swollen eyelid. Help me...

The door slid open. Strong arms picked him up.

"Come on," said a gruff voice. "Your parents are here to see you. Get cleaned up."

My parents? Hope bloomed in his chest. He hadn't seen his parents since the trial. The guards sprayed him down with cold water, and he was dressed in a fresh prison uniform. It was a bit big for him—he had lost a considerable amount of weight since his entry into the prison system. Already, he had had his food intake reduced for a week as punishment.

They put him in a small room with his hands bound and sat him down at a table with his parents sitting opposite him. His mother appeared positively haggard, and his father was looking no better, though the latter still managed a smile.

"Hajime," his father, Yoichi, breathed, as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes. "Son."

Iwaizumi swallowed a lump in his throat, his bottom lip trembling. "Mom. Dad." His voice came out hoarse—he hadn't spoken in days. Hadn't had anyone to speak to.

"Are you alright?" asked Yoichi, standing and reaching out to clutch Iwaizumi's shoulder. "Your eye...!" Before his father's touch could reach him, however, one of the guards intervened.

"Please refrain from touching the prisoner."

Yoichi whirled around in his chair to glare at the guard who had spoken. "He's my son!"

"There are safety precautions, sir. If you do not abide by them, we will have to ask you to leave."

"Tch!" Yoichi clenched his fists as he sat back down. "I can't believe this...!" He turned to look at his wife, Futaba. "Dear, why aren't you saying anything?"

Futaba, who had been gazing emptily at the table edge, didn't bother looking up. "What is there to say?"

Yoichi's face fell. "Futaba!"

"What do you want me to say?" Futaba said lowly. "That you were beaten up by a group of high school students for revenge? That our house was egged? That Satoshi is being bullied at school? That I can't even set foot into any of the stores anymore? What do you want me to say, Yoichi?!"

"What?" blurted Iwaizumi.

"How could you do this to us, Hajime?!" Futaba cried, finally looking up at her son with tears in her eyes. "You've made us pariahs! We're getting death threats! We don't even have a car anymore because someone set it on fire!"

"Futaba, that's enough!" bellowed Yoichi, slamming his hands on the table. "I shouldn't have asked you to say anything at all!"

"Dad, is this true?" Iwaizumi's voice grew small.

"I...!" Yoichi faltered. "We're fine, son. It's nothing you have to worry about—"

"I said is it true?!"

"None of it is your fault!"

Futaba stood, her chair screeching back. "I can't listen to this anymore. I'm sorry, Hajime. But... I can't do this anymore." She hiccuped, bringing her hands to her face. "I've never wanted to die more in my life...!"

"Mom—"

"My son is not a murderer!"

With that, Futaba turned in her heel and made for the door, Yoichi staring after her helplessly.

"Wait, mom!" Iwaizumi screamed, standing and hissing in pain when powerful sets of hands pushed him back into his seat. Days of solitary came crashing down on him, and he openly cried as he called after the woman who had birthed him. "MOM! MOM, I DIDN'T DO IT! PLEASE...! PLEASE COME BACK!"

"Don't touch him!" Yoichi shouted at the wardens. "Son, listen to me. Listen to me, please."

But Iwaizumi shook his head, continuing to scream for his mother, his face growing unbearably red and hot.

Ignoring the roaring of the guards, Yoichi grabbed his son and squeezed him tightly.

Iwaizumi choked on a sob. "Dad...!"

"Son, I believe in you."

The guards wrenched Yoichi off him. "GET OFF HIM!"

They blacklisted his father after that.

He knew then he wasn't young anymore, but he still didn't understand.

He didn't think he wanted to.

Because Iwaizumi Hajime was an innocent man.

May 7th, 2018

When they all converged in the cafeteria for dinner, Iwaizumi pretended not to notice how all of them except Fuchigami were visibly shaken. They said not a word of it either, just sat down and ate without the same sense of order and organization they had had this morning.

It was not unusual.

Dinner was uneventful, and Iwaizumi was standing up with the rest of his cellmates when he was approached by a guard. "Iwaizumi Hajime? You have a visitor."

"What?" Iwaizumi eyes rounded slightly. "A visitor...?"

"Come with us."

"Lucky bastard," Hiroomi growled before he was shooed away.

It can't be an in-person one, Iwaizumi determined as he was led down the halls. I already had two with Naoko. So who...?

They pushed him into a tiny detention cell—hands unbound—with a window tempered glass separating the room from another one and a phone for communication. Cautiously, Iwaizumi approached the window, taking a seat at the table connected to the wall.

At first, he thought he was looking into a mirror. But then his reflection didn't blink back and—

Sitting opposite Iwaizumi, Kindaichi swallowed a lump in his throat and held his communication phone to one ear. Unable to quite believe what he was seeing, Iwaizumi lifted his own phone to his ear.

"H-hi," Kindaichi stammered, his voice loud and clear after the initial crackle.

Whatever Iwaizumi was about to say next came out as a choked sob, one hand clamping over the receiver. "H-hey. It's," his voice trembled, "Kindaichi, right? You... You're Kindaichi Yuutarou."

"Yeah. Um, I..." Kindaichi chewed the inside of his cheek. "Sorry. I didn't really plan this far ahead." Groaning, he palmed his forehead. "Fuck..."

Iwaizumi softened as he watched his junior grow pink in embarrassment. Even after all these years, Kindaichi was still the same at his core. It was both comforting, and something that threatened to rip him apart from the inside out.

He was so tall now. Iwaizumi could tell that even with Kindaichi sitting down. Not that Kindaichi had been short before, but he was certain that—if they were to stand together now—he would probably kick the legs out from under him for being an obnoxious skyscraper.

"Take your time," Iwaizumi reassured him, a senpai sense that he thought he had buried deep inside himself long ago resurfacing with such strength that Iwaizumi felt his knees weaken.

"You..." he trailed off.

"I look like shit, right?"

"No!" Kindaichi blurted. "I wasn't thinking that at all—"

"Haha!" Iwaizumi grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. "I'm just messin' with ya. You haven't changed a bit, Kindaichi. Honestly, it kinda relieves me."

At that, Kindaichi practically wilted. "How can you still smile here?"

"I haven't smiled like this in a while," he admitted.

Kindaichi seemed to realize the implication. "Oh."

He could almost hear his thoughts.

It's because I'm here.

"I won't lie," Iwaizumi went on, this time more cautiously, "I'm surprised to see you. I... I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Oh—nice haircut, by the way."

"Thanks." Kindaichi sighed, absently running his fingers through his hair. The sides were starting to grow out again. If he wanted to maintain the undercut, he would probably visit a salon soon. "Until recently, I didn't think I'd be seeing you either..."

Iwaizumi tilted his head slightly. "Then why now?"

Appearing deeply troubled, Kindaichi leaned forward on his side of the desk, his fingers woven together. "It's... It's about Oikawa. O-or more specifically, the man that... killed him. He may have killed somebody else, and... I need to talk to you about Oikawa and what happened in the past." Kindaichi put his bag on his lap and fumbled through the insides for a good minute before pulling out a crinkled sheet of paper. From where he was sitting, Iwaizumi could spot his handwritten notes. "Is that okay?"

"Go for it." He had told his story many times before. To the prosecutor, the police, his lawyer... It won't make a difference. Not even Sakusa Junji could've helped me that day.

Kindaichi inhaled before starting. "Where were you on the night of Oikawa's death?"

He nearly choked on the last word but Iwaizumi chose to pretend he hadn't heard the stumble. "I was at home," replied Iwaizumi. "Doing my physics homework. But," his jaw clenched, "It was just me in the house that night. Mom and dad had gone out on a date night, and Satoshi was sleeping over at his friend's house." He waited for Kindaichi to hastily pull an A4 notepad out of his bag before continuing. "Kunimi called me at around ten o'clock but I didn't pick up." If I had, maybe I wouldn't be in this mess... He shook the thought away. There was nothing he could do about it now—the chance for an alibi had slipped from his fingers a long time ago.

"Wait, what?" Kindaichi, who had been noting down Iwaizumi's answers, peered up, his mouth agape. "Kunimi called you?"

"Yeah?" Iwaizumi arched a brow.

Again, Kindaichi lifted something out of his bag. A manila folder of some sort. He flipped through it, growing increasingly frantic with each turn of a page. "There's no mention of his anywhere."

"It wasn't relevant information, so it wasn't brought up in court," explained Iwaizumi. "The police spoke to Kunimi, but he had an alibi. Neighbour's surveillance camera caught him out on the street taking out the trash around the time of Oikawa's death, I think." A pause. "I thought you would've known."

"Yeah," muttered Kindaichi, "I thought so, too. Uh—any idea what the call was about?"

"No. Like I said, I didn't pick up. He didn't leave a message or anything either."

"A random call, out of the blue..." Kindaichi's pen whipped across the paper as he frowned.

"Maybe he just needed help with homework or something," Iwaizumi suggested.

But Kindaichi dismissed the idea immediately. "No way. Kunimi never needed help with that kinda stuff. He never studied for anything but always scored within the top ten."

"Smart bastard."

They moved onto the next question. "Uh," Kindaichi stumbled through the question, "The days leading up to his death... Did anything unusual happen? Anything between you and Oikawa, maybe?"

"Iwa-chan, not now."

"Iwa-chan, look, I'm sorry, but... I just need to take care of something first."

"He needs my help, Iwa-chan."

"... Yeah," Iwaizumi answered slowly. "He was acting weird. Avoiding me. Always on his phone. Texting someone," he rectified, "He was always texting someone. I don't know who, though. But he made it seem like he was helping this guy. Toor—Oikawa's phone was never found, was it?"

"No," confirmed Kindaichi. "The killer still has it. That, or he destroyed it."

"Tch." Iwaizumi scowled. "Of course he did..."

"So he was avoiding you," Kindaichi said, reading over the notes he had made. "For this someone—let's call him Yamada—who was in some kind of trouble. Um... What did you do about it?"

"We fought a lot, actually. It went on for two weeks. I..." Iwaizumi hesitated. "I was hurt. Because... I loved him."

"Oh," Kindaichi said, softly. "Oh."

Grunting, Iwaizumi crossed his arms. "You're okay with that?"

"Yeah. Did you think I wouldn't be?"

"I don't know what to expect from people anymore," Iwaizumi confessed. "But not long after we made our feelings clear to each other, he started... obsessing over Yamada. The last time I saw him, he said that he was going to fix some 'past wrong that needed to be righted'. He left practice early that day, around six o'clock. We didn't leave until seven."

"I remember," murmured Kindaichi. "I think. Sorry, I... Go on."

"I got home at around seven-thirty. Dad left a note on the fridge that said he took mom out for a date."

Kindaichi perked up. "Hang on. Did it have, like, a timestamp or anything?"

"Huh. It did, actually." Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes, trying to remember what the time his dad had scribbled on the note had been. "It was... six-thirty, I think. So they left the house in the early evening."

"So there was no one in the house for an hour!" crowed Kindaichi, as if he had discovered something amazing. "The, um," he shuffled through the manila folder's contents, "The kitchen knife with your prints on it... Maybe they took it from your house!"

"Not possible," Iwaizumi refuted. "The back door and front door were locked. The knife didn't belong to me anyway. I saw the murder weapon—it didn't come from my kitchen."

Kindaichi sunk into his seat, the wind taken from his sails. "Ah. Dammit, I thought I was onto something..."

"It's fine," Iwaizumi placated him, "But... I don't think you're going to find anything new."

"I have to try." He took out more things from his bag—this time they were bromides. Kindaichi held up two of them. "Do you recognize them?"

Iwaizumi squinted at the photos—they were of two women. Then he shook his head. "Who are they?"

"Their names are Takagi Chiasa and Kageyama Miwa. They worked on the KidProdigy set during 2008. The same show that Oikawa was on."

Kageyama? Huh. "Yeah, I remember that show. I didn't really have anything to do with it, though—that was all Oikawa and his stupid impulsiveness. Sometimes I waited outside the set for him, but that's it."

More photos were shown. Photos of 'Hanae Ichika', 'Hanae Miyo', and 'Miya Akari'. None of them rang any bells for him. In the end, he recognized only four people—Oikawa's mother, Director Shō Shinya, and a pair of twins: Miya Osamu and Miya Atsumu.

"I walked past them a few times," Iwaizumi told Kindaichi, referring to the twins. "I didn't really talk to them. Same goes for the director." Listlessly, he shrugged. "Sorry. Ah wait." His scowl deepened. "The blond twin. He was an asshole."

Kindaichi turned the photo of Miya Atsumu around to he was looking at it. "Huh. Noted."

"I watched him on TV, too. He was an even bigger asshole on camera, surprisingly. Most people tend to be bastards when they aren't rolling."

For the next ten minutes, Kindaichi went over everything again, wanting to get all the details in order. Iwaizumi remained patient with him, even when he repeated questions he had asked only moments ago.

From Kindaichi's side of the room, a guard came in and informed them that they had seven minutes left to talk.

"Sorry," Kindaichi apologized for the umpteenth time before asking again, "In the time leading up to Oikawa's death, nothing else happened between you and him fighting? Like—did anything that doesn't usually happen occur?"

"Well..." Iwaizumi hunched over on his table, a crease in his brow. Something other than me and Oikawa fighting? In those days, it had been all that consumed him. He hadn't really paid much attention to anything else. Wait. "Actually, yeah. It's not really anything weird, though."

"Tell me anyway," Kindaichi insisted.

"Ah..." Iwaizumi rested his cheek on his palm, the slightest moue on his mien. "I got a confessed to. It's kind of a blur, honestly. I remember she looked like a princess, though... If that makes sense. She gave me something, too. It was, uh, a pig? I think?" He wracked his brain for the memory. "A clay pig that she had made in her art class, I think... She didn't go to Seijoh either. No, in fact..." He sat up straighter. "She was wearing a Karasuno uniform."

"Huh?! Karasuno...?! W-wait!"

"Hm?"

Kindaichi's eyes moved back and forth as he hurriedly read through his notes once more. "She looked like a princess and she went to Karasuno... Am I just overthinking this...?!"

What's he talking about?

"If..." Kindaichi held a bromide in his hand, though it wasn't facing Iwaizumi. "If you had to assign an animal to her face... What would it be?"

Iwaizumi deadpanned. "I barely remember what she looks like."

"Just try, please!"

"Um... Maybe a bird...?"

Kindaichi flipped the bromide around. "Is this her?"

A woman dressed smartly stared back at him with cold, unrelenting eyes that reminded him of a raptor. Her nose had a certain slant to it—one that made her look like incredibly bird-like. Owl-like, Iwaizumi thought. "It is. Who is she?"

"Hirakawa Noriko. She's the current Prosecutor-General of Japan." Kindaichi turned the photo back around, blinking at it as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "The Prosecutor-General confessed to you? I... I don't get this... Ah, wait! Where's the pig? Do you know where it went?"

"I think I put it on my desk. I lost it pretty quick, though." If he thought hard enough, he could still see his room—the curtains flowing outward as a gentle breeze blew through the open window above his study table during the spring.

Kindaichi noted it down.

"Anything else?"

Silence stretched between them, Kindaichi considering it.

"I have one more question," he said quietly. "Do you hate me?"

Iwaizumi frowned. "Of course not. Why?"

"Why don't you?" Frustration seeped into his voice. "I-I only came to you when I needed something! I didn't come to visit you once," Kindaichi looked away, his ears burning red with a deep shame, "Ever. So..." He peered at him desperately. "Why don't you hate me?!"

He did not answer right away. Merely frowned at the glass window that separated them as if he were deliberating his response. "... You can be so short-sighted sometimes, Kindaichi. Yeah, you could've dropped by a few times. But that doesn't matter to me. You wouldn't be here if you didn't think I was innocent. And just knowing that you believe me... That's enough for me.

"Besides," he leaned back in his chair, eyes not quite meeting Kindaichi's, "Every day, I'm surrounded by people who have nothing to hold on to but their hate and resentment. The only thing that's keeping me sane is this hellhole is the fact that I know I'm innocent. There's already too much to hate and not enough things to look forward to around here."

Kindaichi dropped his gaze to the table, the phone nearly slipping out of his hand as he processed Iwaizumi's words. "I... I see. Iwaizumi-senpai!" Iwaizumi jumped at the sudden shout coupled with the honorific. "I swear to you...!" He began to blubber, tears falling from his eyes—they looked like stars in the dimly lit room. "I'm gonna get you outta here, even if it's the last thing I do!"

"O-oi!" Iwaizumi reached his arm forward, then retracted it, as if he remembered that there was glass preventing him from laying a hand on Kindaichi—no matter how comforting it was meant to be. "Don't cry, Kindaichi..."

But if Kindaichi heard him, his words went ignored. The younger man pressed his face against his hands, his shoulders wracking as he sobbed freely. A numbness coming over him, Iwaizumi could only watch in his seat, powerless.

Soon, Kindaichi was sent away. He was still putting his things haphazardly back into his bag when he disappeared through the door. Their time together was over, and the guards marched Iwaizumi back to his cell.

"I'm gonna get you outta here, even if it's the last thing I do!"

Iwaizumi almost crumbled, almost felt his chest cave in from the raw emotion behind Kindaichi's promise. His throat bobbed as he rejoined his cellmates, none of them giving him much of their attention.

It was lights off at nine o'clock sharp.

"Iwa-chan, I love you."

You stupid bastard. He could feel the back of his eyes burn as he turned in his futon to face Aratama's back. After all these years, you still find a way to hurt me even when you're already gone.

Through his blanket, he pressed his knuckles to his lips and wept without a single sound.