Chapter 1: Subpoena Me, Daddy
The shrill of her phone alarm drilled directly into her soul.
Hana flailed one hand out from under the blanket, smacked her phone off the nightstand, and cracked one eye open.
Why? Why was she alive? Why did mornings still exist? Why hadn’t the Earth just swallowed her in her sleep?
She’d passed the bar a year ago. A whole year. After twelve straight months of reviewing statutes until they bled from her eyeballs, annotated sticky notes multiplying like horny rabbits on every surface of her bedroom, and waking up at 3AM panicking over civil procedure.
She thought she’d cry when she passed. Collapse into a weeping heap of joy and catharsis and probably vomit. Instead, she got blackout drunk and cried in a Lawson bathroom because what the fuck now? And now she had a mild drinking problem, a committed relationship with nicotine, and an active avoidance of looking too closely at her own bank statements.
But. She’s now a lawyer.
Not a functional adult, but she owned hangers now. That was something.
She sat up, groaning like her spine was eighty-seven years old, and squinted toward the hallway. Something smelled good. Eggs? Garlic?
Right. Ren.
Her little brother, now a fully grown-up engineer with a job in Meieki, a company car, and the audacity to buy her a brand new scooter because he, quote, "refused to let her die and leave him with her debts.” Touching. Psychotic. Very Ren.
She and Ren were now subletting Yuna’s old Osu apartment at a best-friend-discounted rent, since Yuna had fully migrated to her bougie girlfriend life with Kai, who Hana was absolutely not talking to because he was best friends with that man, a.k.a. corporate Voldemort, a.k.a. the man who must not be named or even accidentally remembered unless she wanted to spiral and cry.
So, yeah. Kai could choke.
Dragging herself out of bed, she shuffled into the kitchen and blinked at the sight of Ren humming along to some old RADWIMPS song while flipping an omelet. His auburn undercut looked freshly trimmed. Both arms were now fully inked with a sleek geometric sleeve. Thank god he’d ditched the eyebrow piercing.
She leaned against the kitchen window, cracked it open, and lit a cigarette with the kind of grace and desperation only nicotine-dependents could manage.
Ren turned around, horror in his eyes. “Don’t smoke in here! I swear I will call Maman and tell her Rei got you into smoking. Let’s see who becomes the favorite child now.”
“You are the favorite,” Hana muttered, exhaling dramatically.
“Really?” Ren raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Because every week, every week Hana-nee, Maman calls me with ′Make sure your sister’s eating,′ or ′Is your sister sleeping properly.’”
She snorted and rolled her eyes, but her chest squeezed a little too tight. Because it was true. Her mom called him to check on her. Like she was the baby sibling Ren was sent to look after. Which, technically, he was sent to Nagoya for school and job prospects, but Hana had always known the truth.
She was the one who needed supervision.
And money.
And emotional babysitting.
Ren had handed her gas money once, just casually shoved it into her hand when she was silently calculating if she could make it to court and back, and she’d cried. Right there. On the sidewalk. In public. Full body sobbing. And he’d just patted her head and said, “You’re still cool.”
She shoved back the memory and focused on not combusting.
“How’s work?” Ren asked, plating the omelet.
“Still okay. Still behind on payment.”
“I’ll do the groceries later. What do you need?”
She should’ve said nothing. She wanted to say nothing.
She was the older one. The one who was supposed to protect him, teach him how to live in the city, be the responsible role model with her degree and her Very Adult Job. But instead, he paid the rent, bought her inhalers, and stocked the fridge when her bank balance hit 342 yen.
And he never made her feel like shit about it.
He just helped. Quietly. Repeatedly. Without asking for anything back.
“Coffee,” she said after a beat, voice a little too thick.
Ren snorted and grabbed his keys. “Don’t forget your bento this time, Hana-nee,” he called, already halfway out the door.
“I love you, Renji,” she yelled after him.
“Stop calling me Renji!” he groaned, slamming the door like a true little brother who cared more than he’d ever admit.
She smiled at the closed door. Then panicked.
“Shit! I’m late!”
And she bolted for the bathroom trailing existential dread behind her like a seasoned pro.
Sumire Law, Meieki, Nagoya
The door to Sumire Law stuck like always, giving her a half-second struggle before it finally gave way with a screech of peeling paint.
Hana stepped inside and inhaled deeply and immediately regretted it. The air smelled like cold instant ramen, printer ink, and Ryoichi’s impending death.
Home sweet hellhole.
The office was exactly what you’d get if a law school dropout and a gremlin shared a Pinterest board. Three desks crammed together like a sad little family reunion, paper stacks teetering on every available surface like Jenga towers held up by sheer force of will. A coffee table held a slowly yellowing stack of Bengo Times. The printer was already blinking in existential crisis, which meant no one had tried turning it off and on again yet.
Her desk was, predictably, beneath the one part of the ceiling that leaked when it rained. The mug she kept there, decorated with a cartoon frog and the words I SUFFER GLADLY, was half-full. Or half-empty. Depending on whether she had breakfast.
“Hana,” Minako called before she could sit. She sounded like someone who hadn’t slept in seventeen years and had made peace with it.
Hana reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette, dangling it from her lips.
She didn’t even get the lighter to spark before a sharp mist of Febreze hit her square in the face.
“Don’t,” Minako said, holding the can like a weapon. “Why don’t you just marry my husband so you two can die clutching each other’s shriveled lungs?”
“Hmm,” Hana mused, giving Ryoichi a once-over like she was judging a suspicious bento box. “I like my men tall.”
Ryoichi, currently on the floor looking for his glasses, grunted. “I’m five-ten.”
“You’re five-ten in your dreams, Ryoichi-san.”
He squinted up at her. “Found them.” He was holding a stapler.
Minako pinched the bridge of her nose like she was suppressing the urge to set the entire building on fire.
“Anyway,” she said, turning back to Hana, “the client from last week still hasn’t paid. And until he does, we can’t pay you.”
Okay
The familiar, soul-crushing, gently delivered slap of you are brilliant but also poor.
“You really should start looking for somewhere that can pay you properly,” Minako added, not unkindly.
Hana waved a hand. “We’re fine. There are ways.”
“Please don’t say ‘OnlyFans’ again.”
“I was going to say YouTube, actually. Like Judge Judy but make it sexy. Or we start our own courtroom drama channel. I can wear a robe. Ryoichi can play the angry bailiff with a nicotine addiction. You can throw legal jargon like grenades.”
Minako stared.
“Okay fine. OnlyFans. Called Subpoena Me, Daddy. Niche, but lucrative.”
“Your parents must be so proud.”
“They’re thrilled,” Hana chirped, collapsing into her chair and kicking off her shoes. “They think I’m ‘doing my best in the city,’ which is code for ‘please stop crying on the phone, Hana.’”
The truth was, she should have left.
She should have taken one of those shiny firm offers with their sleek elevators and espresso machines and cold-eyed partners who saw her as a productivity statistic. Places where she could have earned triple her current salary and cried into imported toilet paper in a soundproof bathroom.
But here, in this chaotic dump of a second-floor office , she mattered.
Ryoichi tossed her court documents with actual trust. Minako trusted her with the damn key to the safe. They let her tear apart witness prep and didn’t react when she got scary in hearings.
Here, she didn’t feel like a failure trying to pass for a grown-up. She felt usefully unhinged. Brilliantly catastrophic. Like all the sharp, messy, too-much parts of her weren’t liabilities, they were assets.
So yeah. No salary?
No problem.
She’d just smoke in the hallway and sell foot pics if it came to that.
