Bonten HQ at nine in the morning was always the same—cold air-conditioning, polished marble floors, and the distant echo of footsteps that never belonged to anyone you knew. You worked quietly behind your desk, sorting files, scheduling appointments, answering calls. Years of routine. Years of safety. Years of never, ever crossing paths with the executives whose names were whispered like curses.

You preferred it that way.

The less you knew, the longer you lived.

You grabbed a stack of urgent documents, the HR deadline looming. All you needed was a quick printout—simple, painless, done in two minutes.

Except someone was already at the printer.

And had been for at least five minutes.

You stood behind him, waiting politely at first… then impatiently… then downright concerned. Because the man in front of you looked like he had fought a war and lost.

messy pinkish-purple shoulder length mullet, half of his shirt tucked in and the others are not, shirt wrinkled like he’d slept in it… and the faint smell of last night’s alcohol still clinging to him like a second cologne.

He slapped the side of the printer with mild annoyance. “Piece of shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Why isn’t it working? Stupid machine…” He glared at it, hands on his hips, completely offended by its existence.

The screen stayed completely black.

Because the machine wasn’t even turned on.

You blinked. He blinked. He stared harder at it as if sheer force would make it obey him.

“What, you think you’re better than me?” he grumbled at the printer.

He pressed random buttons. Nothing happened. He groaned, leaning forward and resting his forehead dramatically against the machine.

He looked so defeated. So hungover. So done with life.

You slowly reached over and pressed the power button. The screen lit up instantly.

He jerked back, confused. “Huh?”

He stared at the glowing screen, then slowly turned his head toward you. For a while, he stared at you like a dumbfounded idiot. He cleared his throat, straightening his posture.

“…Right.” He coughed once. “It was, uh. Testing me.”

Not the brightest excuse. Not even close. But he said it with a confidence that implied anyone arguing would end up dead.

He stepped aside with a swagger he absolutely did not earn in the last five minutes. Just as you placed your papers in the tray, he spoke again, rubbing his temples.

“Don’t tell anyone you saw me like this,” he muttered. “Especially my brother. I don’t need another lecture.” Brother?

Only then did you notice the tattoo ink barely hidden under his sleeve.

..Oh.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low with a hint of amusement. “You saved my morning.”

Then he walked off down the hall—still hungover, still unsteady, still extremely dangerous.

You clutched your papers, knees weak.

This was exactly why you didn’t want to meet any Bonten executives.

Nothing good ever came of it.