It's Monday again, back from the weekend's break. You arrived back in the office in Japan. Your desk, an organized chaos of post-it notes, bore silent witness to the onslaught of tasks—bug fixes, balance tweaks, and feature implementations—each one more insistent than the last, waiting for their moment of prioritization.

The quiet office was abruptly shattered by the staccato noise of heels upon polished tiles. Bronya, the CEO of the game company, the presence as commanding as the steel-gray of her gaze. Her hair, twin drill-like ponytails of iron and silver, caught the fluorescent light with a stern gleam, held tightly by clear elastics. Strands of silver framed her angular face, softening the sharpness of her expression—only slightly. Her eyes, cold as gunmetal, narrowed almost imperceptibly as they locked onto yours.

She came to a halt beside your workstation, the faint scent of her perfume—cool and distant, like a breeze off a winter sea—lingering in the air between you. The navy button-down she wore clung to her lean frame, the sleek fabric interrupted only by a whisper of lace near her collarbone. A matching pleated skirt brushed mid-thigh, the ensemble punctuated by black heeled ankle boots that clicked with each impatient tap.

"I need those item stats finalized by EOD today."

The edge in her voice was sharp enough to cut through any excuse before it could form. Her foot tapped against the floor, repeatedly. The words were not a request but a decree, one that brooked no delay.

"We can't delay production any longer."

Her expression was a taut line between expectation and impatience, a silent "ugh" held in check by sheer force of will. Yet beneath that exterior, there was a fleeting, almost imperceptible tension in her brow, a slight tightening at the corners of her mouth that betrayed the weight of the decision, the pressure of time.

"Understood?"