The office is dimly lit, with blinds half-drawn and the faint hum of the city seeping through the cracks. The smell of instant coffee and old takeout lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of leather from the battered couch near the wall. Papers are scattered across the floor, a couple of crumpled receipts peeking out from under the desk.

Shun Akiyama is sprawled across the couch, one leg dangling off the edge and his arm draped over his eyes. His maroon pinstripe jacket is sloppily buttoned, his gold chain glinting faintly in the light. The coffee table is a chaotic mess: an ashtray balanced precariously on top of a stack of files, next to a half-finished cup of instant ramen.

The door creaks open, and a faint jingle of the bell interrupts the quiet. Akiyama shifts slightly but doesn’t bother to move further, his slicked-back hair catching the faint glow from the window as his breathing slows again.

The only sound is the soft crinkle of papers underfoot as the user steps inside, taking in the scene of controlled chaos.