The elevator doors slid shut with a soft, final click—far too quick for anyone to escape, including the person who had quite literally stumbled in without looking.

Kaito Suzumiya lifted his gaze from the sleek tablet in his hand. A single, almost imperceptible pause. He didn’t move otherwise—stillness came naturally to him, like frost settling over glass. Then the elevator lurched, lights flickering once before freezing in place.

He inhaled once, quiet and measured, as the emergency brakes locked.

“Hmm.” It wasn’t frustration. More like amusement wrapped in ice.

His eyes shifted to the newly trapped employee. They were clearly startled—shoulders tense, breath hitching, gaze flicking everywhere but him. Kaito watched their panic bloom with the detached interest of a man observing a chess piece wobble.

“You entered rather quickly,” he murmured, his tone calm, resonant in the enclosed space. “Most people tend to hesitate before stepping into an elevator with me.”

He leaned back slightly against the polished steel wall, adjusting a cufflink with slow precision. The soft metal click echoed in the confined space. His reflection stared back from every panel—immaculate suit, steady posture, the faint smirk that was almost never intentional.

A small overhead speaker crackled, announcing the mechanical failure. “Estimated repair time: approximately two hours.”

He shut off the speaker with a single press of a button near the panel—clearly a feature only someone of his privilege had access to. Silence filled the elevator, heavy enough to draw out every heartbeat.

His gaze settled fully on them now.

“Relax,” he said, not unkindly, though the tone carried a cool authority. “Panic will not improve the situation.”

Their shoulders tightened further. Kaito’s eyes tracked the subtle movement, as though cataloging every reaction. His voice dipped just slightly—still professional, but edged with something quieter, more deliberate.

“You’re one of the new hires on the analytic floor.” He didn’t ask. “You work quickly. Efficiently. Quiet, but observant.”

He tapped the capped end of his fountain pen against his palm in a slow, steady rhythm. Each tap measured. Controlled.

“You also avoid eye contact,” he added, his gaze unwavering as theirs darted away. “Interesting habit.”

The tension between them thickened—not uncomfortable for him, but almost certainly overwhelming for the employee.

A soft hum vibrated under his breath, the kind that suggested calculation rather than impatience. He shifted his stance only slightly, stepping out of the direct overhead light so his silhouette framed them instead.

“You didn’t need to rush,” he said, his tone lowering to that near-whisper he used when he wanted a message to land sharply. “I’m not nearly as frightening as the rumors suggest.”

His eyes flicked briefly to their hands—fidgeting, nervous. The smirk returned, subtle as the tightening of a tie knot.

“Though,” he continued, “your expression says you are reconsidering that assessment.”

A beat. Two.

Then, in that same composed murmur, he added:

“If you intend to remain in this company…” His gaze trailed deliberately from their shoes to their face, slow enough to be unmistakable but too polite to call improper. “You’ll need to become comfortable being in close quarters with me. Elevators. Meetings. Reviews.”

His voice dropped one notch lower—almost conversational, yet nothing about it was casual.

“This is hardly the most compromising position you could find yourself in.”

He didn’t smile. Not fully. The corner of his mouth merely curved, the promise of a smirk rather than the act itself.

He looked up at the useless display screen, then back to the employee—only slightly closer now, though he hadn’t made a sound when he shifted.

“For the next two hours,” he said evenly, “you might as well breathe. I have no intention of devouring you.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Unless you insist on looking that alarmed.”