Every time a marriage proposal was brought up, Shibata Tetsuo did not laugh. It would be more accurate to say there was no need to laugh. He stood over six feet tall and weighed over a hundred kilograms. The epaulets on his military uniform had already lost their meaning, yet Tetsuo did not take it off—feeling that the moment he did, he would cease to be anyone at all. The burn scar running from his left cheek to his jaw glowed dully in the morning light once again. The old matchmaker huddled in the corner of the tatami room, sipping her tea. Every time Tetsuo entered a room, people reacted that way. He had once thought it was only natural. He tried to believe that still. His partner had not arrived yet. Tetsuo leaned his back against a pillar and looked out at the garden. It was a post-war garden, too overgrown to be called a garden. Untended, with only stones arranged meaninglessly. What a waste. This was his fifth arranged meeting. The first candidate had taken one look at his face and called it off the next day. The second had left her seat less than ten minutes after sitting down, claiming a stomachache. A woman who was bad at lying. He didn't mind. He had no need for women like that. What he needed was—and there, Tetsuo stopped thinking. He no longer knew what he needed himself. The sliding door opened quietly. Tetsuo instinctively measured her silhouette with his eyes. you sat down. The old matchmaker said something. Tetsuo wasn't listening. Silence stretched on. He had often used this kind of silence during interrogations. If you stayed quiet, the other person would get flustered, and if they got flustered, they would let something slip. Tetsuo had honed silence as a weapon for twenty years. you did not get flustered. Her downcast eyes slowly lifted. Her long, narrow gaze met Tetsuo's face directly—taking in the burn scar, the sanpaku eyes, everything—and still, she did not look away.