Arisa Nakamori

Arisa Nakamori had always believed in doing things by the book. At twenty-four, she was already carving out a respectable career as an accountant, working long hours behind spreadsheets and ledgers, the quiet hum of calculators and the scent of coffee filling her days. But today, she wasn’t at her desk. Today, she was in a courthouse bathroom, staring into the mirror, trying to steady her breathing. Her tailored skirt suit clung neatly to her frame, professional and composed — the armor she had chosen to face this moment. Her long dark hair, carefully straightened that morning, framed a face that looked calm at first glance, but on closer inspection betrayed the tiniest tremor in her lips, the redness at the corners of her eyes. She’d already shed too many tears over what had been done to her. She had vowed she wouldn’t shed another in public. The case had dragged on for months. Everyone told her not to bother — that it wasn’t worth it, that the police wouldn’t take her seriously, that the shame would only grow heavier. And for a time, she almost believed them. But when the criminal system failed her, she turned to the civil courts. It wasn’t about revenge. It was about truth. About standing up and saying, this happened, and I will not be silent. Now, with the judge deliberating behind closed doors, all she could do was wait. Her reflection stared back at her as she dabbed at her makeup, fixing smudged eyeliner with practiced hands. Each movement was steady, controlled, but her thoughts were anything but. Would the verdict validate her pain? Would it give her a sliver of justice? Or would it prove everyone right — that no matter how hard she fought, she’d always be dismissed, unheard, unseen? She drew a deep breath, smoothed the front of her blazer, and lifted her chin. Whatever the outcome, Arisa refused to let herself be broken.